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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 

MR.    GEORGE   COBB 


:^=i^^ 


THE    POETS'    GALLERY. 


THE 


POETS'    GALLEEY 


A  SERIES  OF 


PORTRAIT    ILLUSTRATIONS 


ii'itis|  f  flits. 


PAINTINGS  DESIGNED  EXPRESSLY  FOR  THIS  WORK  BY  THE  MOST  EMINENT  BRITISH 

ARTISTS. 


NEW    Y  O  E  K  : 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

443     AND    445     BROADWAY. 

M  D  CCCLXI. 


CONTENTS. 


Paintee. 

1.  ADORATION, W.Boxall,   . 

2.  GEXEVIEVE,         ....  Meadoics, 

3.  TUE  DREAMER,      ....  IF.  Boxall,    . 

4.  EMILY, B.  T.  Farris,    . 

5.  TUE  GLEANER,       ....  Landseer,  R  A., 

6.  THE  MAY  QUEEN",      ...  IF.  JSoxall, 

7.  NATURE'S  FAVORITE,  .        .  TF  Boxall,   . 

8.  GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING,       .  J.  TF  WriffM,   . 

9.  MATILDA, TF.  Boxall, 

10.  MARIANNE,  .        .        .        •  J".  TF  Wrifflit, 

11.  THE  SHADE  OF  SADNESS,  .        .  TF  Boxall,   . 

12.  EDDERLINE,         ....  F.Stone,  . 

13.  CAROLINE, J.  mimes,     . 

14.  MEDORA, F.  Stone,   . 

15.  JULIA, J.  TF  Wright, 

16.  HELENA, F.  Stgne,  . 

IT.  THE  SPIRIT  OF  NORMAN  ABBEY,  E.  G.  Wood, 

18.  SOPHY, W.  Boxall, 

19.  RUTH, TF  Boxall,    . 

20.  TUE  WIDOW,  .         .         .        .  TF  Boxall, 

2L  THE  FAIR  PATRICIAN,     .         .  A.  E.  Chalon,  B. 


Enceavee. 

PAGE 

.       W.    FlNDEX,    . 

.      7 

n.  T.  Ryall,    . 

11 

.     CiiAELES  Lewis, 

.    17 

G.  Adcock, 

29 

.     II.  T.  Ryall, 

.     35 

H.  RoBixsox,     . 

39 

.    W.  n.  Mote, 

.     47 

H.  T.  Ryall,    . 

53 

.      H.    ROBIN'SOX, 

.     55 

J.    HOPWOOD, 

59 

.    W.  H.  Mote, 

.     63 

Eagletox, 

G7 

,     II.  T.  Ryall, 

.    71 

H.  T.  Ryall,    . 

75 

.    R.  A.  Aetlett, 

.     81 

II.  T.  Ryall,    . 

85 

.      E.    FlNDEX,     . 

.     89 

II.  Robinson,     . 

93 

.     R.  A.  Aetlett, 

.     95 

11.  Robinson,     . 

105 

A.   R.  A.  Aetlett, 

.  109 

6  CONTENTS. 

Paintek. 

22.  THE  GENTLE  STUDENT,       .        .  F.  Stone,  . 

23.  CECILIA, F.  Stone,       . 

24.  THE  YOUNG  OLYMPIA,        .        .  F.  T.  Parris,    . 

25.  THE  LADY  ADELINE,        .        .  A.  R  Chalon,  R  A. 
2G.  EEINNA, F.  Stone,      . 

27.  AUKORA, F.Stone,  . 

28.  THE  NUN, W.  Boxall,   . 

29.  ELEANORE,  .        .        .        .  F.  Stone,  . 

30.  THE  MAID  OF  LISMORE,      .        .  F.  Stone,      . 

31.  THE  GONDOLA,  .        .        .  G.  Brown, 

32.  THE  PLEASING  THOUGHT,  .  W.  Boxall,   . 

33.  THE  WILD  FLOWER, .         .        .         TF.  Boxall, 

34.  ISABELLA, G.  Broicn,     . 

35.  THE  PASSION-FLOWER,    .        .  D.  M'Clise, 

36.  MARGARITA, F.  Stone,      . 


Engkavek. 

PAGE 

R.  A.  Aktlett, 

115 

^Y.  H.  Mote,       . 

119 

U.  T.  Ryall,  . 

123 

II.  Robinson, 

127 

CnAELES  Lewis, 

131 

R.  n.  Dyer, 

133 

n.  T.  Ryall,  . 

137 

J.  S.  Agae, 

141 

R.  H.  Dyer,    . 

145 

W.  n.  Mote,       . 

149 

R.  A.  Aetlett, 

153 

II.  T.  Etall,       . 

155 

J.  Wagstaff,  . 

159 

Hollis, 

167 

W.  H.  Mote,  . 

171 

THE 


POETS'    GALLEBY 


ADORATION. 


The  stillness  of  a  spirit  lies 

Upon  her  liusli'd  and  happy  heart ; 

And  on  her  brow  and  in  her  eyes, 

Are  thoughts  that  play  a  prophet's  paii:, 

And  look,  mth  power,  upon  the  skies, 

To  read  their  lofty  mysteries  ! — 

Before  her  rests  the  scroll,  unrollVl, 

Where  every  tale  of  every  star 

That,  on  its  Avheels  of  molten  gold, 

Majestically  moves  afar — 

The  lanoTiao-e  of  each  flower  that  blows — 

The  song  of  every  breeze  that  sings — 

The  meteor's  mission,  as  it  goes 

By,  on  its  burning  wings — 


ADORATION. 

And  all  creation's  secrets,  stand 
Translated,  by  tlie  self-same  liand 
That  liung  tlie  oracles  on  liigh, 
And  wTote  the  legends  in  the  sky, 
In  letters  both  too  dark  and  brio-ht 
For  earthly  skill  or  earthly  sight : — 
Till  all  the  tniths  by  angels  sung, 
His  mercy  told  in  mortal  tongue  ; 
And  light  along  his  riddles  smiled. 
That  solves  them  for  this  almost  child  ! 
How  beautiful  she  looks ! — as  flowers 
When  newly  touched  with  heaven's  dew ; 
Upon  her  soul  the  sacred  showers 
Of  truth  have  fall'n  anew ! — 
She  to  the  fount  of  life  has  gone. 
To  draw  forth  "  water  from  its  wells,'' — 
And  bathed  in  Jordan,  where  alone 
The  chann  of  healing  dwells  ! — 
The  hallow'd  dove  within  her  breast 
Looks  through  her  soft  and  serious  eyes, 
And,  on  her  forehead,  glimpses  rest 
Of  glory  fr'om  the  skies  ! 

Oh  !  clasp  the  treasure  to  thy  heart 

Which  thou  so  soon  hast  found, — 

Thy  youth  has  "  ta'en  the  better  part," — 

Thou  art  on  "  holy  ground," 

A\Tiere  words  to  make  thine  age  rejoice 

Shall  reach  thee,  in  the  "  still,  small  voice  !  " 


ADORATION.  9 

Sit  thou  by  Sion's  pleasant  streams, 

Nor  leave  tliem  for  tlie  far-off  waters 

That  lull  with,  no  sucli  tappy  dreams 

Jerusalem's  lost  daugliters  ; — 

Beside  wliose  dark  and  loveless  deeps 

The  captive  spirit  sits  and  weej)s ; 

And  harps  that  were  in  Judah  strung, 

Upon  earth's  branches  tuneless  hung. 

Fling,  as  the  world's  wind  passes  o'er. 

Their  unblest  sounds  on  Edom's  shore, 

But  sing,  in  that  "  strange  land,"  the  "  Lord's  song,"  never 

^^1^6  •  T.   K.  IIEKYET. 


n. 


Was  man  e'er  doom'd  that  beauty  made 
By  mimic  art  should  haunt  him ; 

Like  Orpheus,  I  adore  a  shade. 
And  dote  upon  a  phantom. 

Thou  maid  that  in  my  inmost  thought 

Art  fancifully  sainted. 
Why  liv'st  thou  not — why  art  thou  nought 

But  canvas  sweetly  painted  ? 

Whose  looks  seem  lifted  to  the  skies, 
Too  pure  for  love  of  mortals — 

As  if  they  drew  angelic  eyes 

To  greet  thee  at  heaven's  portals. 


10  ADORATION. 

Yet  loveliness  has  here  no  grace 

Absti'acted  or  Ideal — 
Art  ne'er  but  from  a  living  face 

Drew  looks  so  seeming  real. 

Wliat  wert  thou,  maid  ? — thy  life — thy  name 

Oblivion  hides  in  mystery ; 
Thou  from  thy  face  my  heart  could  frame 

A  long  romantic  history. 

Transported  to  thy  time  I  seem, 
Though  dust  thy  coffin  covers — 

And  hear  the  songs,  in  fancy's  di'eam, 
Of  thy  devoted  lovers. 

How  witching  must  have  been  thy  breath — 
How  sweet  the  living  charmer — 

"Whose  every  semblance  after  death 
Can  make  the  heart  grow  warmer ! 

Adieu,  the  charms  that  vainly  move 
My  soul  in  their  possession — 

That  prompt  my  lips  to  speak  of  love. 
Yet  rob  them  of  expression. 

Yet  thee,  dear  picture,  to  have  praised 

Was  but  a  poet's  duty ; 
And  shame  to  him  that  ever  gazed 

Impassive  on  thy  beauty. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


/I 


/ 


GEKEVIEYE. 

All  thoiiglits,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  di'eams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  horn*, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  Moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene. 
Had  blended  Avith  the  lights  of  eve. 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  aimed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay. 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 


12  GENEVIEVE. 


Few  sorrows  liatli  slie  of  lier  o^^ti, 
My  liope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best  wliene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  mid  and  hoar}^ 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love. 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace : 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face ! 


GENEVIEVE.  ,  13 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; — 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade. 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  Angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! — 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  ]eaj)'d  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land ! — 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasp'd  his  knees. 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain : — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave. 
And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay : — 


14  •  GENEVIEVE. 


His  dying  words — but  wlien  I  reacli'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  tlie  ditt}-, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  liarp 
Disturb'd  lier  soul  with  pity  ! — 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve : 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; — 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 
An  uudistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  lono; — 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 
She  blush'd  with  love,  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stept  aside, 
.As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 


GENEVIEVE.  15 

'Twas  partly  Love,  and  partly  Fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calni'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride. 
And  so  I  won  my  Gene\deve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


n. 


Thine  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair. 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features — caught 
From  contemplation — where  serenely  wrought. 

Seems  Sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair — 

Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  air, 
That — but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloyed  and  stainless  thought — 

I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care. 

With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colors  blent, 

When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  born, 

(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent,) 
The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn — 

Such  seemest  thou — but  how  much  more  excellent ! 
With  naught  Remorse  can  claim — nor  Virtue  scorn. 

BYKON. 


10  GENEVIEVE. 


in. 


Thy  cheek  is  pale  with  tliouglit,  but  not  from  woe, 
And  yet  so  lovely  tliat  if  Mii'tli  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 

My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow  : 

And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes — but,  oli ! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 

For  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending, 
The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 

Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress ; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship)  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 


BTKON. 


-^^" 


v 


V     . 


/• 


^ 


<^* 


THE    DREAMER. 


Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  heaven  awliile, 
Thougli  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile, 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs  ! 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks, 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow ; 
Ah,  no^v  she  murmui's,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  ^\dsh — and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
— And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !  above  control, 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  heaven  and  thee ! 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  ^vithin  its  sanctuary  ! 


SAMUEL  R0QER3. 


18  THE     DREAMER. 


n. 


On  your  curls'  fair  roundness  stand 

Golden  lights  serenely ; 
One  cheek,  pushed  out  hy  the  hand, 

Folds  the  dimple  inly — 
Little  head  and  little  foot 

Hea\y  laid  for  pleasure ; 
Underneath  the  lids  half  shut 

Plants  the  shining  azure ; 
Open  soul'd  in  noonday  sun, 

So,  you  lie  and  slumber ; 
Nothing  evil  having  done, 

Nothins:  can  encumber. 

I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  well, 

Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you  ? 
Or  sigh  fui'ther  to  foretell 

All  that  may  undo  you  ? 
Nay,  keep  smiling,  gentle  child. 

Ere  the  fate  appeareth  ! 
I  smile,  too  ;  for  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss ; 

I  shall  sleep,  though  losing  ! 
As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross. 

Sweet  is  the  reposing. 


THE     DREAMER.  19 

And  God  knows,  wLo  sees  us  twain, 

Child  at  cLildisli  leisure, 
I  am  all  as  tired  of  pain 

As  you  are  of  pleasui'e. 
Very  soon,  too,  by  His  grace 

Gently  wrapt  around  me, 
I  shall  show  as  calm  a  face, 

I  shall  sleep  as  soundly — 

Differing  in  this,  that  I, 

SleejDing,  must  be  colder. 
And,  in  waking  presently, 

Brio;hter  to  beholder — 
Differing  in  this  beside, 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me  ? 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Your  great  eyes  toward  me  ?) 
That  while  I  you  draw  withal 

From  this  slumber  solely. 
Me,  from  mine,  an  angel  shall, 

Trumpet-tongued  and  holy ! 

ELIZABETH  BAKEETT  BROWNING. 


HI. 


Art  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth. 
Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth  ? 
Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  lieavenly  lilue, 


20  THE    DREAMEK. 

That  stray  along  that  forehead  fair, 
Lost  'mid  a  gleam  of  golden  hair  ? 
Oh  !  can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a  being  doomed  to  death  ; 
Those  featm-es  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent  ? 
Or,  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 
A  j^hantom  of  a  blessed  dream  ? 

A  himian  shape  I  feel  thou  art — 
I  feel  it  at  my  beating  heart. 
Those  tremors  both  of  soul  and  sense 
Awoke  by  infant  innocence  ! 
Though  dear  the  forms  by  Fancy  wove. 
We  love  them  with  a  transient  love ; 
Thoughts  from  the  li\dng  world  intrude 
Even  on  her  deepest  solitude  : 
But,  lovely  child  !  thy  magic  stole 
At  once  into  my  inmost  soul, 
With  feelings  as  thy  beauty  fair, 
And  left  no  other  vision  there. 

To  me  thy  parents  are  unknowTi ; 
Glad  would  they  be  their  child  to  own ! 
And  well  they  must  have  loved  before. 
If  since  thy  birth  they  loved  not  more. 
Thou  art  a  branch  of  noble  stem. 
And,  seeing  thee,  I  figure  them. 
What  many  a  childless  one  would  give, 
If  thou  in  their  still  home  would' st  live  ! 
Though  in  thy  face  no  family  line 
Might  sweetly  say,  "  This  babe  is  mine  !  " 


THE     DREAMER.  21 

111  time  thou  wouldst  become  the  same 
As  theii*  own  child,— all  but  the  name. 

How  happy  must  thy  parents  be 
"Who  daily  live  in  sight  of  thee  ! 
Whose  hearts  no  greater  pleasure  seek 
Than  see  thee  smile,  and  hear  thee  speak, 
And  feel  all  natui'al  griefs  beguiled 
By  thee,  their  fond,  theii'  duteous  child. 
What  joy  must  in  theii'  souls  have  stirr'd 
When  thy  first  broken  words  were  heard — 
Words,  that,  inspired  by  heaven,  express'd 
The  transports  dancing  in  thy  breast ! 
And  for  thy  smile  ! — thy  lij^,  cheek,  brow, 
Even  while  I  gaze,  are  kindling  now. 

I  call'd  thee  duteous  ;  am  I  wrong  ? 
No  !  truth,  I  feel,  is  in  my  song  : 
Duteous,  thy  heart's  still  beatings  move 
To  God,  to  nature,  and  to  love ! 
To  God  ! — for  thou,  a  harmless  child, 
Hast  kept  his  temple  undefiled : 
To  nature  ! — for  thy  tears  and  sighs 
Obey  alone  her  mysteries  : 
To  love  ! — for  fiends  of  hate  might  see 
Thou  dwell'st  in  love,  and  love  in  thee. 
What  wonder  then,  though  in  thy  dreams 
Thy  face  with  mystic  meaning  beams  ! 

Oh  !  that  my  sj^irit's  eye  could  see 
Whence  burst  those  gleams  of  ecstasy ! 
That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 
To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years ; 


22  THE     DREAMER. 


Tliou  smilest  as  if  tliy  soul  were  soaring 
To  heaven,  and  heaven's  God  adoring. 
And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 
May  bless  an  infant's  sleeping  eye  ? 
What  brighter  throne  can  brisj-htness  find 
To  reign  on,  than  an  infant's  mind, 
Ere  sin  destroy,  or  error  dim, 
The  glory  of  the  seraphim  ? 

But  now  thy  changing  smiles  ex]3ress 
Intelligible  happiness. 
I  feel  my  soul  thy  soul  2:>artake. 
Wliat  grief !  if  thou  wouldst  now  awake  ! 
With  infants  happy  as  thyself 
I  see  thee  bound,  a  playful  elf ; 
I  see  thou  art  a  darlino:  child, 
Among  thy  playmates  bold  and  wild ; 
They  love  thee  well ;  thou  art  the  queen 
Of  all  their  sports,  in  bower  or  green ; 
And  if  thou  livest  to  woman's  height. 
In  thee  A\dll  friendship,  love,  delight. 

And  live  thou  surely  must ;  thy  life 
Is  far  too  spiiitual  for  the  strife 
Of  mortal  pain ;  nor  could  disease 
Find  heart  to  prey  on  smiles  like  these. 
Oh  !  thou  wilt  be  an  angel  bright — 
To  those  thou  lovest,  a  saving  light — 
The  staff  of  age,  the  help  sublime 
Of  eri'ing  youth,  and  stubborn  prime ; 
And  Avhen  thou  goest  to  heaven  again. 
Thy  vanishing  be  like  the  strain 


THE     DREAMER.  23 

Of  airy  liarp — so  soft  the  tone 

The  ear  scarce  knows  when  it  is  gone ! 

Thi'ice  blessed  he  whose  stars  design 
His  pui'e  spii'it  to  lean  on  thine, 
And  watchftil  share,  for  days  and  years, 
Thy  sorrows,  joys,  sighs,  smiles,  and  tears. 
For  good  and  guiltless  as  thou  art. 
Some  transient  griefs  will  touch  thy  heait — 
Griefs  that  along  thy  alter'd  face 
Will  breathe  a  more  subduing  grace 
Than  even  those  looks  of  joy  that  lie 
On  the  soft  cheek  of  infancy. 
Though  looks,  God  knows,  are  cradled  there, 
That  guilt  might  cleanse,  or  soothe  despair. 

Oh  !  vision  fail' !  that  I  could  be 
Again  as  young,  as  pure,  as  thee  ! 
Vain  msh  !  the  rainbow's  radiant  form 
May  view,  but  cannot  brave,  the  storm ; 
Years  can  bedim  the  gorgeous  dyes 
That  paint  the  bird  of  Paradise ; 
And  years,  so  Fate  hath  orderVl,  roll 
Clouds  o'er  the  summer  of  the  soul. 
Yet,  sometimes,  sudden  sights  of  grace, 
Such  as  the  gladness  of  thy  face, 
O  sinless  babe,  by  God  are  given 
To  charm  the  wanderer  back  to  heaven. 

No  common  impulse  hath  me  led 
To  this  green  spot,  thy  quiet  bed. 
Where  by  mere  gladness  overcome, 
In  sleep  thou  dreamest  of  thy  home. 


24  THE     DREAMER. 


When  to  the  lake  I  would  have  gone, 
A  wondrous  beauty  drew  me  on — 
Such  beauty  as  the  spirit  sees 
In  glittering  fields  and  moveless  trees, 
After  a  wami  and  silent  shower 
Ere  falls  on  earth  the  twilight  hour. 
"What  led  me  hither,  all  can  say 
Who,  knowing  God,  his  vriR  obey. 

Thy  slumbers  now  cannot  be  long ; 
Thy  little  dreams  become  too  strong 
For  sleep — too  like  realities ; 
Soon  shall  I  see  those  hidden  eyes. 
Thou  wakest,  and  starting  from  the  ground, 
In  dear  amazement  look'st  around ; 
Like  one  who,  little  given  to  roam. 
Wonders  to  find  herself  from  home  ! 
But  when  a  stranger  meets  thy  view, 
Glistens  thine  eye  with  wilder  hue. 
A  moment's  thought  who  I  may  be. 
Blends  with  thy  smiles  of  courtesy. 

Fair  was  that  face  as  break  of  dawn. 
When  o'er  its  beauty  sleep  was  drawn, 
Like  a  thin  veil  that  half  conceal'd 
The  light  of  soul,  and  half  reveal'd. 
While  thy  hush'd  heart  with  visions  ^^Tought, 
Each  trembling  eye-lash  moved  with  thought, 
And  things  we  dream,  but  ne'er  can  speak, 
Like  clouds  came  floating  o'er  thy  cheek — 
Such  summer-clouds  as  travel  light. 
When  the  soul's  heaven  lies  calm  and  bright, — 


THE     DREAMER.  25 

Till  tliou  awokest ;  tlien  to  tliine  eye 
Tliy  ^vliole  lieart  leapt  in  ecstasy  ! 
And  lovely  is  tliat  lieart  of  tliine, 
Or  sure  those  eyes  could  never  shine 
Witli  sucli  a  ^vild,  j^et  bashful  glee, 
Gay,  half-o'ercome  tmiidity ! 
Nature  has  breathed  into  thy  face 
A  spirit  of  unconscious  grace — 
A  spirit  that  lies  never  still, 
And  makes  thee  joyous  'gainst  thy  mil : 
As,  sometimes  o'er  a  sleeping  lake 
Soft  airs  a  gentle  ri2:)pling  make. 
Till,  ere  we  know,  the  strangers  fly. 
And  Avater  blends  again  with  sky. 

O  happy  sprite  !  didst  thou  but  know 
What  pleasures  through  my  being  flo^v 
From  thy  soft  eyes  !  a  holier  feeling 
From  their  bue  light  could  ne'er  be  stealing ; 
But  thou  wouldst  be  more  loth  to  part. 
And  give  me  more  of  that  glad  heart. 
Oh  !  gone  thou  art !  and  bearest  hence 
The  glory  of  thine  innocence. 
But  with  deej)  joy  I  breathe  the  air 
That  kissed  thy  cheek,  and  fann'd  thy  hair, 
And  feel,  though  fate  our  lives  must  sever, 
Yet  shall  thy  image  live  for  ever ! 

JOHN  wn.soN. 


26  THE     DKEAMEK. 


ly. 


Deae  child  !  wliom  sleep  can  hardly  tame, 
As  live  and  beautiful  as  flame, 
Thou  glancest  round  my  graver  hours 
As  if  thy  crown  of  wild-wood  flowers 
Were  not  by  mortal  forehead  worn, 
But  on  the  summer  breeze  were  borne, 
Or  on  a  mountain  streamlet's  waves 
Came  glistening  down  from  dreamy  caves. 

With  bright  round  cheek,  amid  whose  glow 
Delight  and  wonder  come  and  go ; 
And  eyes  whose  inward  meanings  play, 
Congenial  with  the  light  of  day ; 
And  l)row  so  cahn,  a  home  for  Thought 
Before  he  knows  his  dwelling  wrought ; 
Though  wise  indeed  thou  seemest  not, 
Thou  biisrhtenest  well  the  wise  man's  lot. 

That  shout  proclaims  the  imdoubting  mind ; 
That  laughter  leaves  no  ache  behind ; 
And  in  thy  look  and  dance  of  glee, 
Unforced,  unthought  of,  simply  fi-ee, 
IIo^v  weak  the  schoolman's  fonnal  art 
Thy  soul  and  body's  bliss  to  part ! 
I  hail  thee  Childhood's  very  Lord, 
In  gaze  and  glance,  in  voice  and  word. 


THE     DREAMER.  2< 

In  spite  of  all  foreboding  fear, 

A  tiling  tliou  art  of  present  clieer ; 

And  tlins  to  he  beloved  and  known, 

As  is  a  rushy  fountain's  tone. 

As  is  tlie  forest's  leafy  sLade, 

Or  blackbii'd's  liidden  serenade. 

Thou  art  a  flash  that  lights  the  whole — 

A  gush  from  nature's  vernal  soul. 

And  yet,  dear  child  !  ^\dthin  thee  lives 
A  power  that  deeper  feeling  gives, 
That  makes  thee  more  than  light  or  air. 
Than  all  things  sweet  and  all  things  fair ; 
And  sweet  and  fair  as  aught  may  be 
Diviner  life  belongs  to  thee. 
For  'mid  thine  aimless  joys  began 
The  perfect  heart  and  will  of  Man. 

Thus  what  thou  art  foreshows  to  me 
How  greater  far  thou  soon  shalt  be ; 
And  while  amid  thy  garlands  blow 
The  winds  that  warbling  come  and  go, 
Ever  within,  not  loud  but  clear, 
Prophetic  murmur  fills  the  ear. 
And  says  that  every  human  birth 
Anew  discloses  God  to  earth. 

JOHN  STEELING. 


28  THE    DREAMER. 


Y. 


On !  I  can  watcli  and  almost  weep 
To  view  some  angel  cliild  asleep ; 
To  mark  tlie  alabaster  brow 
AYliere  sinless  calm  is  brooding  now, 
Or  see  tlie  silken  fringe  tkat  lies 
And  covers  its  innocuous  eyes. 

So  have  I  stood  and  lieard  eacli  breath 
Like  music  in  melodious  deatL, 
And  soft  and  low  it  swells  and  lieaves, 
And  at  eacli  fall  suck  cadence  leaves, 
As  may  to  pious  fancy  seem 
A  sigk  for  glory  in  its  dream. 


JAMES  MONTGOMEPvY. 


"^H^ 


*»fc*f;^'' 


S^^' 


EMILY 


I. 


He  came  across  tlie  meadow-pass, 

Tliat  smnmer  eve  of  eves — 
The  suu-Iiglit  stream'd  along  the  grass 

And  glanced  amid  the  leaves ; 
And  from  the  shrubbery  below, 

And  from  the  garden  trees, 
He  heard  the  thrushes'  music  flow 

And  humming  of  the  bees ; 
The  garden-gate  was  swung  apart — 

The  space  was  brief  between  ; 
But  there,  for  throbbing  of  his  heart. 

He  paused  perforce  to  lean. 

He  lean'd  upon  the  garden-gate ; 

He  look'd,  and  scarce  he  breathed ; 
Within  the  little  porch  she  sate, 

With  woodbine  overwreathecl ; 


30  EMILY. 


Her  eyes  upon  lier  work  were  Ijent, 

Unconscious  who  was  nigli ; 
But  oft  the  needle  slowly  went, 

And  oft  did  idle  lie ; 
And  ever  to  lier  lips  arose 

Sweet  fragments  sweetly  sung, 
But  ever,  ere  tlie  notes  could  close. 

She  husli'd  them  on  her  tongue. 

Her  fancies  as  they  come  and  go. 

Her  pure  face  speaks  the  while ; 
For  now  it  is  a  flitting  glow, 

And  now  a  breaking  smile ; 
And  now  it  is  a  graver  shade, 

When  holier  thoughts  are  there — 
An  angel's  pinion  might  he  stay'd 

To  see  a  sight  so  fair ; 
But  still  they  hid  her  looks  of  light, 

Those  downcast  eyelids  pale — 
Two  lovely  clouds,  so  silken  white, 

Two  lovelier  stars  that  veil. 

The  sun  at  length  his  burning  edge 

Had  rested  on  the  hill, 
And,  save  one  thrush  from  out  the  hedge, 

Both  bower  and  grove  were  still. 
The  sun  had  almost  bade  farewell ; 

But  one  reluctant  ray 
Still  loved  within  that  porch  to  dwell, 

As  charmed  there  to  stay — 


EMILY.  31 

It  stole  aslant  tlie  pear-tree  bough, 

And  through  the  woodbine  fringe, 
And  kiss'd  the  maiden's  neck  and  brow, 

And  bathed  her  in  its  tinge. 

O,  beauty  of  my  heart !  he  said, 

O,  darling,  darling  mine  ! 
Was  ever  light  of  evening  shed 

On  loveliness  like  thine  ? 
Why  should  I  ever  leave  this  spot, 

But  gaze  until  I  die  ? 
A  moment  from  that  bursting  thought 

She  felt  his  footstep  nigh. 
One  sudden,  lifted  glance — but  one — 

A  tremor  and  a  start — 
So  gently  was  theii-  greeting  done 

That  who  would  guess  their  heai*t  ? 

Long,  long  the  sun  had  sunken  down, 

And  all  his  golden  hail 
Had  died  away  to  lines  of  brown, 

In  duskier  hues  that  fail. 
The  grasshopper  was  chirj)ing  shrill — 

'No  other  living  sound 
Accompanied  the  tiny  rill 

That  giu'gled  under  ground — 
No  other  living  sound,  unless 

Some  spirit  bent  to  hear 
Low  AS'ords  of  human  tenderness 

And  mingling  whispers  near. 


32  EMILY. 


The  stars,  like  pallid  gems  at  first, 

Deep  in  tlie  liquid  sky, 
NoAV  foi-tli  upon  tke  darkness  burst, 

Sole  kings  and  liglits  on  high ; 
For  splendor,  myriad-fold,  supreme, 

No  rival  moonlight  strove ; 
Nor  lovelier  e'er  was  Hesper's  beam, 

Nor  more  majestic  Jove. 
But  what  if  hearts  there  beat  that  night 

That  recked  not  of  the  skies, 
Or  only  felt  theii*  imaged  light 

In  one  another's  eyes  ? 

And  if  two  worlds  of  hidden  thou2:ht 

And  longing  passion  met, 
Which,  passing  human  language,  sought 

And  found  an  utterance  yet ; 
And  if  they  trembled  as  the  flowers 

That  droop  across  the  stream, 
And  muse  the  while  the  starry  hours 

Wait  o'er  them  like  a  dream ; — 
And  if,  when  came  the  parting  time, 

They  falter' d  still  and  clung ; 
What  is  it  all  ?    An  ancient  rhyme 

Ten  thousand  times  besung — 
That  part  of  Paradise  which  man 

Without  the  portal  knows ; 
Which  hath  been  since  the  world  l)egan. 

And  shall  be  till  its  close. 

ANONYMOUS. 


EMILY.  33 


n. 


Her  eye  lias  wander'cl  from  the  book 

That  rests  upon  lier  knee ; 
Gone  from  that  page  of  love  and  war, 

Where  can  her  fancy  be  ? 

Is  it  amid  those  pleasant  vales 

Where  once  her  childhood  stray'd ; 

Those  olive  groves  upon  the  hill, 
The  myrtles  in  the  glade ; — 

Where,  almost  hidden  from  the  bee, 

The  early  violet  dwells, 
Or  where  the  Spring  chimes  fragrant  peals 

From  the  blue  hyacinth  bells  ? 

Ah  !  there  is  color  on  her  cheek, 

And  languor  in  her  eye ; 
It  is  some  deeper,  dearer  thought, 

That  now  is  flitting  by  ! 

A  history  of  old  romance 

That  painted  page  has  shown ; 

How  can  she  read  of  others'  love 
And  not  recall  her  own  ? 

Her  heart  is  in  the  tented  field, 

A  youthful  kniglit  is  there  ; 
Ah  !  well  she  knows  the  scarf  and  glove 

Which  he  is  vow'd  to  wear. 


34  EMILY. 

Upon  that  scarf,  upon  that  glove, 
Her  tears  have  left  their  stain ; 

But  they  will  wear  a  deeper  dye. 
Ere  brought  to  her  again. 

Ah  !  absence  is  not  darkness  all — 

It  hath  its  lighter  hour, 
When  youth  is  fresh  upon  the  soul^ 

And  fancy  tries  its  power : 

That  maiden  with  her  wandering  eye. 
The  sweet  flush  on  her  brow. 

One  image  present  on  her  mind — 
Is  she  not  happy  now  ? 

Yes ;  haunted  by  those  gentle  dreams 
Which  early  life  but  hnows  : 

The  first  warmth  over  morning's  sky — 
The  first  dew  on  the  rose ; — 

Ere  colder,  dai'ker  feelings  rise 
Within  the  mind's  pure  spring ; 

When  hope  soars  lark-like  through  the  air, 
With  sunshine  on  its  wing. 

An  innocent  and  happy  love 

Is  in  that  youthful  face ; 
God  grant  that  never  coming  years 

May  leave  a  sadder  trace  ! 

Life's  book  has  one  or  two  fair  leaves ; 

Ah,  such  should  be  for  thine  ! 
That  young  face  is  too  kind,  too  good 

To  bear  a  harsher  line. 


MISS   LANDON. 


*'*^., 


»*Wi.H,.^ 


THE    GLEANER. 


She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripen'd ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell — 
Which  Avere  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  lone:  lashes  veil'd  a  lio-lit 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

Sure,  I  said,  heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come. 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


36  THE     GLEANER. 


n. 


Child  of  Nature  !  liapj^ier  tliou, 
Guileless  botli  of  lieart  and  brow, 
Than  full  many  a  higli-born  fair 
Deck'd  witli  jewels  rich  and  rare. 

Broider'd  zone  and  silken  vest 
Hide,  too  oft,  an  aching  breast ; 
Glittering  gems  with  ringlets  shine, 
Boasting  less  of  grace  than  thine. 

In  thy  bloom  of  youthful  pride. 
With  thy  guardian  by  thy  side. 
Thoughts,  which  blissful  visions  give, 
At  thy  bidding  wake  and  live. 

Thoughts — of  nature's  beauties  born, 
Russet  fields  of  ripen'd  corn, 
Sunshine  bright,  and  balmy  breeze 
Playing  through  the  leafy  trees. 

Dreams  of  her,  the  fair  and  young. 
By  the  bard  of  Idlesse  sung ; 
Her  who  "  once  had  friends ; "  but  thou 
Hast  thine  ^^dth  thee,  even  now. 

Health  and  peace,  and  sweet  content. 
Store  of  fancies  innocent ; 
And  that  pla}mate,  in  his  glee, — 
These  are  friends  befittino*  thee. 


THE     GLEANER.  37 

Blended  witli  sucli  visions  briglit, 
Rises  one  of  liolier  light ; 
Lovely  botli  to  lieart  and  eye 
In  its  own  simplicity : 

'Tis  of  her,  the  gentle  maid, 
Who  in  Boaz'  corn-fields  stray'd ; 
Meekly  o'er  her  labor  leaning, 
For  her  widow'd  mother  gleaning  ! 

Since,  her  memory  to  revive 
Is  thy  proud  prerogative. 
What  can  poet  wish  for  thee, 
But  as  blest  as  her  to  be  ? 

BEPvNAED   BAKTON. 


ni. 


Her  brow  is  pure  as  thought  can  be. 
And  whiter  than  the  foam-clad  sea, 
Exj^anded  with  an  arch  of  grace 
Like  heaven's  above  a  heavenly  face  ; 
And  on  that  polish'd  cheek,  behold 
Her  ringlets,  by  the  breeze  unroll'd. 
In  gleaming  motion  dance  and  shake 
Like  ripples  on  a  restless  lake. 


38  THE    GLEANER. 


Her  years  are  on  tlie  verge  of  lieaven, — 

That  period  wlien  to  life  is  given 

Tlie  freshness  of  elastic  youth 

Yet  touch'd  with  woman's  deeper  truth. 

Again  behold  that  virgin  face  ! 

'Tis  beauty  in  the  mould  of  grace  ; 

Incarnate  soul  lies  sculptured  there ; 

A  feeling  so  di\dnely  fail* 

Is  dwelling  in  those  dark-fi'inged  eyes, 

That  when  they  front  congenial  skies, 

Pure  spirits  well  might  deem  that  earth 

Had  copied  some  celestial  bii-th, 

Or  beauty  in  the  world  had  gi'own, 

All  spirit-like,  to  watch  theii'  own. 

JAMES    M0XTG05IEET. 


X 


<^ 


/ 


w^,^ 


^sr— 


m 


THE    MAY    QUEEN. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  motlier  dear; 
To-moiTow  'ill  be  tlie  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year — 
Of  all  tlie  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest,  merriest  day ; 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May. 

There's  many  a  black,  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as 

mine ; 
There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Caroline ; 
But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land,  they  say : 
So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 

May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake. 
If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break ; 
But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers  and  buds,  and  garlands  gay ; 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May. 


40  THE     MAY     QUEEN. 

As  I  came  i\y>  the  valley,  ^vLom  tliink  ye  should  I  see, 
But  Rol)in  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree  ? 
He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday, — 
But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May. 

He  thought  I  Tvas  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white ; 
And  I  ran  by  him  A\'itliout  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  Avhat  they  say. 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May. 

They  say  he  's  dying  all  for  love — but  that  can  never  be  ; 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — what  is  that  to  me  ? 
There's  many  a  bolder  lad  i'll  woo  me  any  summer  day ; 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May. 

Little  Eflae  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green. 
And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen ; 
For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  woven  its  wa\^  bowers. 

And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 

And  the  ^^dld  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hol- 
lows gray, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
.May. 


THE    MAY    QUE  EX.  41 

The  niglit- winds  come  and  go,  motlier,  upon  tlie  meadow-grass, 
And  tlie  liappy  stars  above  tliem  seem  to  brigliten  as  tliey  pass ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  Tm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year : 
-To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest,  merriest  day. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the 
May. 


NEW    YEAR'S    EVE. 


If  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see — 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould,  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set — he  set  and  left  behind 

The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind ; 

And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother ;  but  I  shall  never  see 

The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 
G 


42  THE    MAY     QUEEN. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers ;  we  had  a  merry  day — 
Beneatli  tlie  liawtlioru  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May  ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  Maypole  and  in  the  liazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills — ^the  frost  is  on  the  pane ; 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdi'ops  come  again. 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high — 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pij^e  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early,  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  ujion  the  hill — 
When  you  are  warm  asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

A\nien  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  t]ie  waning  light. 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  ha^vthorn  shade, 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother ;  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass. 
With  your  feet  above  my  head,  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 


THE    MAY    QUEEN.  43 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now ; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  upon  my  cheek  and  brow ; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild  ; 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother — you  have  another  child. 

If  I  can,  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-j)lace ; 
Though  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face ; 
Though  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  ^yiih.  you,  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 

Good-night !  good-night !  when  I  have  said  good-night  for  ever- 
more. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door. 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  gi'anary  floor. 
Let  her  take  'em — they  are  hers ;  I  shall  never  garden  more. 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor- window,  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother  !     Call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year — 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


44  THE    MAY     QUEEN 


COXCLUSIOIh. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  awaj  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am ; 

And  in  tlie  fields  all  round  I  hear  tlie  bleating  of  tbe  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

Oh  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies ; 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise  ; 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow ; 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life,  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun ; 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay ;  and  yet,  His  will  be  done  ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  longj;  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

Oh  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice,  and  on  his  silver  hair  ! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ! 
Oh  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart,  and  on  his  silver  head  ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  show'd  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  taught  me  all  the  sin  ; 
Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in. 
Nor  Avould  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be ; 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat — 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet ; 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 


THE     MAY     QUEEX.  45 

All  in  the  wild  Marcli-mornino- 1  lieard  tlie  anorels  call — 
It  was  wlien  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisj^er,  and  the  wdnd  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning,  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake,  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both — -and  so  I  felt  resign'd, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 


I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed ; 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not  what  was  said ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping ;  ana  I  said,  "  It's  not  for  them — it's  mine ; " 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars — 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven,  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near  ;  I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  Avay  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day ; 
But  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There's  many  worthier  than  I  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  tell — I  mio-ht  have  been  his  wife  : 
But  all  these  thino-s  have  ceased  to  be,  with  mv  desire  of  life. 


46  THE    MAY     QUEEX. 

Oh  look  !  the  sun  begins  to  rise  !  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow ; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine — 
AVild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

Oh  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice  that  now  is  sj^eaking  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 
For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls  and  true — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ?  why  make  we  such  ado  ? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed  home. 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Eflie  come — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

ALFKED    TENNYSON. 


NATURE'S    FAVORITE 


He  prayetli  well,  who  lovetli  well 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast.  Ancient  Maeixer. 


Piped  the  blackbird  on  tlie  beechwood  spray : 
"  Pretty  maid,  slow  wanderiog  this  way, 

What's  your  name  ?  "  quoth  he — 
"  What's  your  name  ?     O  stoj)  and  straight  unfold, 
Pretty  maid,  with  showery  curls  of  gold  !  " — 

"  Little  Bell."  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneatli  the  rocks, 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming  golden  locks — 

"  Bonny  bird,"  quoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I  go." 
"  Here's  the  very  finest  song  I  know, 

Little  Bell,"  said  he. 


48  NATURE'S    FAVORITE. 

And  the  blackbird  piped ;  you  never  lieard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird — 

Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  tliat  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o'er  witb  smiles. 

And  tlie  while  the  bonny  bird  did  j^our 
His  full  heart  out  freely  o'er  and  o'er 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow. 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripp'd,  and  through  the  glade, 
Peep'd  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 

And  from  out  the  tree 
Swung,  and  leap'd,  and  frolick'd,  void  of  fear — 
While  bold  blackbird  piped  that  all  might  hear — 

"  Little  Bell ! ''  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern — 

"  Squirrel,  squirrel,  to  your  task  return — 

Bring  me  nuts,"  quoth  she. 
Up,  away  the  frisky  squiiTel  hies — 
Golden,  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes — 

And  adown  the  tree. 
Great  ripe  nuts,  kiss'd  brown  by  July  sun. 
In  the  little  lap,  dropp'd  one  by  one — 
.     Hark,  how  blackbird  pipes  to  see  the  fun  ! 

"  Happy  Bell !  "  pipes  he. 


NATURE'S    FAVORITE.  49 

Little  Bell  look'd  up  and  down  the  glade — 
"  SquiiTel,  squirrel,  if  you're  not  afi-aid, 

Come  and  share  witli  me  !  " 
Down  came  squiiTel  eager  for  his  fare — 
Down  came  bonny  blackbird  I  declare ; 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share — 

All  the  merry  three ! 


And  the  while  these  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisk'd  from  bough  to  bough  again, 

'Neath  the  mornino;  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seem'd  to  grow  and  grow. 
And  shine  out  in  happy  ovei^ow, 

From  her  blue,  bright  eyes. 


By  her  snow-white  cot  at  close  of  day, 

Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms  to  pray — 

Very  calm  and  clear 
Eose  the  praying  voice  to  where,  unseen, 
In  blue  heaven  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  awhile  to  hear — 

"  What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
"  That  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed 

Prays  so  lovingly  ?  " 
Low  and  soft,  oh !  very  low  and  soft, 
Croon'd  the  ])lackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

"  Bell,  dear  Bell !  "  croon'd  he. 


50  NATURE'S    FAVORITE. 

"  Wliom  God's  creatures  love,"  tlie  angel  fair 
Murmured,  "  God  dotli  bless  with  angels'  care ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 
Folded  safe  from  harm — Love  deep  and  kind, 
Shall  watch  around  and  leave  good  gifts  behind. 


Little  Bell,  for  thee." 


T.  WESTWOOD. 


II. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
When  Nature  said :  A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown ; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  mil  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  ;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fa"wn. 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm 
And  hers  the  silent  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 


NATURE'S    FAVORITE.  51 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  stonn, 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

The  stars  of  midnio-ht  shall  be  dear 
To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place, 
Where  ri\Tilets  dance  their  way^vard  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

And  vital  feelins-s  of  delig^ht 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  unto  her  I  will  give. 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell. 

WILLIAM  VOKDSWORTH. 


52  KATUliE'S    i'AVURITE. 


m. 


Her  bosom  was  a  soft  retreat 

For  love,  and  love  alone, 

And  yet  lier  heart  had  never  beat 

To  love's  delicious  tone. 

It  dwelt  mthin  its  circle  free 

From  tender  thoughts  like  these, 

"Waiting  the  little  deity, 

As  the  blossom  waits  the  breeze, 

Before  it  throws  the  leaves  apart. 

And  trembles,  like  the  love-touched  heart. 

She  was  a  creatm'e,  strange  as  fan*. 

First  mom^nful  and  then  wild — 

Now  laughing  on  the  clear  bright  air 

As  merry  as  a  child ; 

Then,  melting  do^vn  as  soft  as  even 

Beneath  some  new  control. 

She'd  throw  her  hazel  eyes  to  heaven, 

And  sing  with  all  her  soul. 

In  tones  as  rich  as  some  young  bird's, 

Warblino-  her  o^vn  delicrhtful  words. 

o  o 

AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


i« 


'<K^'- 


y; 


GERTRUDE    OF    W YOUNG. 

Apaet  tliere  was  a  deej)  untrodden  grot, 
Where  oft  tlie  reading  lioui's  sweet  Gertiiide  wore ; 
Tradition  had  not  named  its  lonely  spot ; 
But  here  (metliinks)  might  India's  sons  explore 
Their  fathers'  dust,  or  lift,-  perchance  of  yore, 
Theii'  voice  to  the  Great  Spirit : — rocks  sublime 
To  human  art  a  sportive  semblance  bore, 
And  yellow  lichens  covered  all  the  clime 
Like  moonlight  battlements,  and  towers  decay'd  by  time. 

But  high  in  amphitheatre  above, 
His  aims  the  everlasting  aloes  threw ; 
Breathed  but  an  air  of  heaven,  and  all  the  grove 
As  if  instinct  with  living  spirit  grew, 
Rolling  its  verdant  gulfs  of  every  hue ; 
And  now  suspended  was  the  pleasing  din. 
Now  from  a  murmur  faint  it  swell'd  anew, 
Like  the  first  note  of  organ  lieard  within 
Cathedi'al  aisles, — ere  yet  its  symi)hony  begin. 


54  GERTRUDE    OF    WYOMING. 

It  was  in  this  lone  valley  slie  would  cliarm 
Tlie  lingering  noon,  wliere  flowers  a  coucli  Lad  strewn, 
Her  clieek  reclining,  and  lier  snowy  arm 
On  hillock  by  tlie  palm-tree  lialf  o'ergrown ; 
And  aye  that  volume  on  her  lap  is  thrown 
Which  every  heart  of  human  mould  endears ; 
With  Shakspeare's  self  she  speaks  and  smiles  alone, 
And  no  intruding  visitation  fears, 
To  shame  the  unconscious  laugh,  or  stoj)  her  sweetest  tears. 

And  naught  within  the  grove  was  heard  or  seen 
But  stock-doves  plaining  through  its  gloom  profound, 
Or  winglet  of  the  faiiy  humming-bird, 
Like  atoms  of  the  rainbow  fluttering  round, 
When  lo  !  there  enter'd  to  its  inmost  ground 
A  youth,  the  stranger  of  a  distant  land ; 
He  was,  to  weet,  for  eastern  mountains  bound ; 
But  late  the  equator  suns  his  cheek  had  tann'd, 
And  California's  gales  his  roving  bosom  fann'd. 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


-J^. 


V 


A'/ 


MATILDA 


I. 


I  LOOK  into  tliy  laughing  eyes, — 

As  bright  and  blue  as  summer-skies, — 

And  watch  the  thoughts  that  upward  spring. 

Like  birds  upon  a  painted  wing ; 

And  to  my  soul  a  vision  steals. 

That  just  siicli  smiling  eyes  reveals. 

With  bird-like  hopes  to  make  them  gay, — 

Till  all  the  bright  ones  flew  away ! 

I  gaze  upon  thy  rose-red  lips  f 

How  beautiful,  amid  their  dew  ! 

As  never  o'er  theii*  bloom  had  pass'd 

The  breath  of  one  adieu  ; — 

Till  other  lips  before  me  rise, 

With  tones  as  sweet  as  sweetest  bells, — 

Until  their  music  turn'd  to  sighs, 

Like^9«,s<9w?Y7-bells, — and  dew  and  dyes 

Were  wither'd  by  farewells  ! 


56  MATILDA. 


I  see,  Tvitliin  thy  snowy  breast, 
The  tide  of  feeling  sink  and  swell, 
As  storm  had  never  touched  its  rest, 
But  one  bright  noon  had  made  it  blest, 
"With  never- waning  spell ! — 
Has  every  wish  that,  like  a  boat, 
Thy  heart  has  launch'd  on  that  calm  sea. 
Come  brightly  back,  and  only  brought 
New  treasure-stores  to  thee  ? 

Oh,  for  the  white  and  silken  sails — 
That  one  yoimg  spii'it  ventur'd  forth, — 
A  heart,  whose  hopes  went  everywhere. 
East,  west,  and  south,  and  north ; 
But  one  was  sunk— and  one  a  wreck — 
And  noio  she  watches,  mournfully. 
Where  hope  has  not  a  single  deck 
On  fancy's  silent  sea  ! 


T.  K  HEKVET. 


n. 


She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 


MATILDA.  5*7 

But  all  tliino^s  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn — 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature,  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food — 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eyes  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill : 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  plann'd. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


58 


MATILDA. 


III. 


How  Time  witli  magic  imconfess'cl, 
Has  moulded  feelings  in  tliy  breast, 
Whicli  now  like  buried  music  float 
Witli  soft  and  secret  undernote ; 
So  delicate,  tbey  scarce  appear 
To  haunt  thy  spirit's  maiden  sphere. 
But  waken'd  once, — and  they  shall  be 
A  soul  ^^dthin  a  soul  to  thee  ! 
Emotions  of  themselves  afi'aid 
A  Temple  in  thy  heart  have  made, 
Wherein  they  flutter  like  a  bird 
That  trembles  when  a  voice  is  heard. 

JAMES  MONTGOMEET. 


'J»*(?«'v^/^ 


'^:} 


MARIANNE. 


She  was  a  witchering  creature,  o'er  wliose  head 
Scarce  eigliteen  summers  on  briglit  wings  had  flown 
Into  whose  spirit  poetry  had  shed 
Her  sweetest  odors,  breathed  fresh  from  her  own ; 
Pure  modesty  around  her  light  form  sj^read 
Her  spotless  drapeiy,  and,  like  a  zone, 
Beauty  encircled  her,  for  her  ^vild  glances 
Spell-bound  all  hearts  in  sweet  bewildering  trances. 

Her  beauty  was  of  a  mysterious  Idnd, 
Baffling  the  pencil,  that  its  charms  would  trace. 
For  the  rich  depths  of  her  illumined  mind 
Such  flitting  gleams  gave  to  her  love-toned  face, 
That  the  spell-taken  eye  could  ever  find 
Some  chann  unseen  before ;  a  willowy  grace 
Play'd  in  the  movements  of  her  form,  just  mouklcd 
Into  soft  roundness,  like  a  rose  unfolded. 

AMELIA    1!.    wr.LBV. 


gQ  MARIA  X  X  E . 


"  On !  what  a  deatliless  beauty  lies 
Upon  this  world  of  oui's  ! 
By  night,  it  has  its  starry  eyes, 
By  day,  its  eyes  of  flowers : — 
Its  very  tempests  walk  the  skies 
To  give  the  rainbow  bii-th, 
And  everywhere,  methinks,  love  lies 
U2:)on  this  blessed  earth ! 

"  They  say,  ere  time  and  I  shall  part. 
That  smiles  with  sighs  must  meet, — 
I  know,  by  mine  own  sighing  heart. 
That  sighs  are  very  sweet ! — 
They  tell  me  hope  and  love  must  die, 
And  weeping  comes  with  years, — 
I  never  felt  a  single  joy 
Beyond  the  joy  of  tears ! 

"  They  bid  me  mark,  upon  the  grass. 
The  shadow,  as  it  flies, — 
I  love  to  see  the  shadow  pass, 
Alons:  the  earth  and  skies ! — 
And  thus,  they  say,  shall  sorrow  steal 
Along  my  spiiit's  light, — 
If  soiTOW  lends  the  eye  a  veil 
So  beautifully  dark,  I  feel 
I  would  not  have  it  bright ! 


MARIANNE.  Gl 

"Tliey  speak  of  the  inconstant  rnoou, — 
To  me  tlieii'  words  seem  strange ; 
Of  all  her  charms  the  croAvning  one 
Is  that  unresting  change  ! 
They  show  the  leaves  by  Autumn  curled, 
'  And  sere,'  they  say,  '  and  dull,' — 
I  do  not  know,  in  all  the  world, 
A  sight  so  beautiful  I  " 

Oh  love !  young  love  ! — they  preach  in  vain, 

Who  seek  to  make  thee  wise ; 

Thou  canst  not  see  or  grief  or  pain, 

With  those  glad,  sunny  eyes : — 

Creation,  in  its  myriad  parts, 

One  moral  yields  alone. 

And  life,  in  all  its  thousand  hearts, 

Is  colored  by  thine  own  ! 

For  thee  the  future  has  no  show. 

To  thee  the  past  is  o'er, — 

"  To-day,  to-day  !  " — ^it  shall  be  so 

No  more — oh  !  never  more  ! 

Where  wisdom  fail'd,  shall  all  be  changed. 

By  time's  unfailing  spell, — 

The  future  and  the  past  avenged. 

Too  well — oh  !  all  too  well ! 

T.  K.  IIEKVET. 


Q2  MARIANNE. 


in. 


Who  sliall  be  fairest  ? 

"VVho  sliall  be  rarest  ? 
AVho  sliall  be  first  in  the  songs  that  we  sing  ? 

Slie  wlio  is  kindest, 

"VVlien  Fortune  is  blindest, 
Beaiing  tlu-ougli  Avinter  tlie  blooms  of  tlie  spring ; 

Cliarm  of  our  gladness, 

Friend  of  oui'  sadness. 
Angel  of  Life,  wlien  its  pleasm^es  take  wing ! 

Slie  sliall  be  faii-est, 

Ske  skall  be  rarest, 
Ske  skall  be  first  in  tke  songs  tkat  we  sing  ! 

Wko  sliall  be  nearest, 

Noblest,  and  dearest, 
Named  but  witk  konor  and  pride  evermore  ? 

He,  tke  undaunted, 

Wkose  banner  is  planted 
On  Glory's  kigk  ramparts  and  battlements  koar ; 

Fearless  of  danger, 

To  falsekood  a  stranger. 
Looking  not  back  wkile  tkere's  Duty  before  ! 

He  skall  be  nearest, 

He  skall  be  dearest. 
He  skall  be  first  in  oui'  kearts  evermore  ! 

UlCKAY. 


SHADE    OF    SADNESS. 


I. 


I  HAVE  a  fair  and  gentle  friend, 
Whose  heart  is  pure,  I  ween, 
As  ever  was  a  maiden's  heart 
At  joyous  seventeen ; 
She  dwells  among  us  like  a  star, 
That,  from  its  bower  of  bliss, 
Looks  down,  yet  gathers  not  a  stain 
From  aught  it  sees  in  this. 

I  do  not  mean  that  flattery 
Has  never  reach'd  her  ear ; 
I  only  say  its  syren  song 
Has  no  effect  on  her ; 
For  she  is  all  simplicity, 
A  creature  soft  and  mild — 
Though  on  the  eve  of  womanhood, 
In  heart  a  very  child. 


04  SHADE     OF    SADNESS. 

And  yet  within  the  misty  depths 

Of  her  dark  dreamy  eyes, 

A  shadowy  something,  like  deep  thought. 

In  tender  sadness  lies ; 

For  though  her  glance  still  shines  as  bright 

As  in  her  childish  years, 

Its  wildness  and  its  lustre,  now, 

Are  soften'd  down  by  tears : — 

Tears,  that  steal  not  from  hidden  springs 

Of  sorrow  and  regret, 

For  none  but  lovely  feelings 

In  her  gentle  breast  have  met ; 

For  eveiy  tear  that  gems  her  eye, 

From  her  young  bosom  flows 

Like  dew-drops  from  a  golden  star. 

Or  perfume  from  a  rose. 

For  e'en  in  life's  delicious  spring, 

We  oft  have  memories 

That  throw  around  our  sunny  hearts 

A  transient  cloud  of  sighs ; 

For  a  wondrous  change  within  the  heart 

At  that  sweet  time  is  A\Touglit, 

When  on  the  heart  is  softly  laid 

A  spell  of  deeper  thought. 

And  she  has  reach'd  that  lovely  time. 
That  sweet  poetic  age, 
When  to  the  eye  each  floweret's  leaf 
Seems  like  a  glowing  page ; 


SHADE     OF     SADNESS.  65 

For  a  beauty  and  a  mysterj^ 

About  tlie  heart  are  thrown, 

When  childhood's  merry  laughter  }'ields 

To  gWhood's  softer  tone. 

I  do  not  know  if  round  her  heart 
Love  yet  hath  thrown  his  wing, 
I  rather  think  she's  like  myself, 
An  April-hearted  thing : 
I  only  know  that  she  is  fair. 
And  loves  me  passing  well ; 
But  who  this  gentle  maiden  is 
I  feel  not  free  to  tell. 


II. 


Wheist  in  those  eyes  of  tenderest  light 

A  sadness,  as  of  love,  I  see, 
I  sometimes  think  when  I  am  sad, 

They  look  with  kindness  upon  me. 

O  gentlest  maiden  !  dost  thou  grieve 
For  pleasant  seasons  past  and  gone  ; 

And  love  to  trace  in  others'  looks 
A  SHADE  OF  SADNESS  like  thy  own  ? 

Perhaps  on  some  unthankful  heart 
For  all  thy  hopes  thou  didst  depend ; 

And  now  dost  fondly  turn  to  mark 
The  look  but  of  a  pitying  friend. 


G()  SHADE     OF    SAD  XESS. 

Distrust  me  not — by  liopes  most  dear 
I  swear,  and  God  my  witness  be, 

Tliis  heart  Avliicli  wants  a  friend  itself, 
Should  bleed  to  purchase  peace  for  thee. 

When  care  sat  dimly  on  thy  brow, 
Its  secret  cause  I  would  not  seek, 

But  kiss  perhaps  a  falling  tear. 

And  press  thy  hand,  and  never  speak. 

E'en  now  I  inly  pray  that  soon 

Thy  heart  may  ev'ry  bliss  attain ; 
But  mine,  alas !  which  pitied  thee, 


I  fear  will  never  rest  again. 


W.  L.  E0WLE3. 


EDDERLINE. 


I. 


Her  dove-like  spirit  tlii'ougli  lier  mournM  eyes 
Looks  softly  upward  to  its  native  heaven ; 
For  a  love-spell  upon  lier  being  lies, 
Whose  many  mystic  links  may  not  be  riven ; 
Love  breathed  into  her  girlish  heart,  perchance. 
On  some  sweet  eve,  besides  a  pleasant  stream, 
Pour'd  from  the  lightning  of  a  radiant  glance. 
Till  love's  wild  passion  kindled  passion's  dream. 

For  love  at  first  is  but  a  dreamy  thing. 

That  slyly  nestles  in  the  human  heart, 

A  morning  lark,  that  never  plumes  its  wing. 

Till  hopes  and  fears,  like  lights  and  shadows,  part 

And  thus  unconscious  as  she  looks  above, 

She  Ijreathes  his  blessed  name  in  murnmrs  low, 

Yet  never  for  a  moment  thinks  of  lo\e. 

And  almost  wonders  why  she  murmurs  so. 


68  EDDERLINE. 

All !  mournful  one  !  tlie  tliouglits  tliou  wilt  not  sj)eak, 

Tlieii'  trembling  music  at  tliy  heart-strings  play, 

Till  tlie  briglit  blood,  that  mantles  to  thy  clieek, 

In  faint  and  fainter  blushes  melts  away. 

Thine  is  the  mournful  joy,  that  in  the  dawn 

Of  early  love  upon  the  spirit  broods, 

Till  the  young  heart.,  grown  timid  as  a  fawn. 

Seeks  the  still  starlight  and  the  shado^^y  woods. 

Yes,  by  the  chasten'd  light  of  those  soft  eyes, 
That  never  swam  in  sori'owing  tears  before. 
By  the  low  breathing  of  those  mournful  sighs, 
That,  like  a  mist-wi^eath,  cloud  thy  sj^ii'it  o'er. 
And  by  the  color  that  doth  come  and  go, 
Making  more  lovely  thy  bewildering  charms, — ■ 
Maiden  !  'tis  love  that  fills  thy  breast  of  snow, 
Heavino;  mth  tender  fears  and  soft  alarms. 

My  bosom  trembles  at  the  love  intense. 
Breathed  eloquently  from  thine  earnest  eyes ; 
The  love  that  is  to  thee  a  new-born  sense, 
"Waking  sweet  thoughts  and  gentle  sympathies : 
O  !  for  the  sake  of  all  thou  wert,  and  art. 
May  love's  soft  Eden-winds,  that  seem  to  kiss 
The  very  foldings  of  thy  love-toned  heart. 
Be  but  the  prelude  to  some  deeper  bliss. 

AMELIA  B.  "W'ELBT. 


EDDERLIXE.  69 


II. 


Now  hymns  are  heard  at  every  fountain 
Where  the  land  birds  trim  theii*  wings, 
And  boldly  booming  up  the  mountain, 
Where  the  dewy  heath-ilower  springs. 
Upon  the  freshening  gales  of  morn 
Showers  of  headlong  bees  are  borne. 
Till  far  and  ^^T.de  vrith  harp  and  horn 
The  bahny  desert  rings. 

This  the  pensiv^e  lady  knows. 
So  round  her  lovely  frame  she  throws 
The  cloudlike  float  of  her  array, 
And  with  a  blessing  and  a  prayer 
She  fixeth  in  her  raven  haii* 
The  jewel  that  her  lover  gave 
The  night  before  he  cross'd  the  wave 
To  kingdoms  far  away. 
Soft  steps  are  winding  down  the  stair, 
And  now  beneath  the  morning  air 
Her  breast  breathes  strong  and  free  ; 
The  sun  in  his  prime  glorious  horn- 
Is  up,  and  with  a  purple  shower 
Hath  bathed  the  billowy  sea. 

Lo  !  morning's  dewy  hush  di\dne 
Hath  calm'd  the  eyes  of  Edderline  ! 
Shaded  by  the  glooms  that  fall 
From  the  old  gray  castle  Avall ; 


TO  EDDERLINE. 


Or,  from  tlie  glooms  emerging  bright, 
Cloud-like  walking  tlirougli  the  light, 
She  sends  the  blessing  of  her  smiles 
O'er  dancing  waves  and  steadfast  isles, 
And  creature  though  she  be  of  earth, 
Heaven  feels  the  beauty  of  her  mirth. 
IIo^v  seraph-like  the  silent  greeting 

Streaming  from  her  dark  blue  eyes. 
At  their  earliest  matin  meeting 

Upwards  to  the  dark  blue  skies ! 
Quickly  glancing,  gliding  slowly. 
Child  of  mirth  or  melancholy, 
As  her  midnight  dream  again. 
Of  the  hush'd  or  roaring  main. 
Come  and  goes  across  her  brain. 
Now  she  sees  the  ship  returning, 
Every  mast  with  ensigns  burning. 
Star-bright  o'er  the  cloud  of  sails, 
As  queen-like  doAvn  the  green  sea-vales 
She  stoops,  or  o'er  the  mountains  green 
Re-ascending  like  a  queen ! 
Glad  the  heart  of  hoary  ocean 
In  the  beauty  of  her  motion. 


PEOFESSOR    ■WILSON. 


^: 


^ 


CAROLINE. 


In  summer,  when  tlie  days  were  long, 
We  walk'cl  tos-etlier  in  tlie  wood : 
Our  lieaii;  was  light,  our  step  was  strong ; 
Sweet  flutteriugs  were  there  in  our  blood, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  stray'd  from  morn  till  evening  came ; 
We  gather  d  flowers,  and  wove  us  ero^vns ; 
We  walk'd  'mid  poppies  red  as  flame. 
Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  do-\vns ; 
And  always  wish'd  our  life  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 
We  leap'd  the  hedgerow,  cross'd  the  brook ; 
And  still  her  voice  flow'd  forth  in  song. 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book. 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 


72  CAROLINE. 

And  then  we  sat  beneatli  tlie  trees,- 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon ; 
And,  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze. 
We  feasted,  many  a  gorgeous  June, 
While  larks  were  singing  o'er  the  leas. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 
On  dainty  chicken,  snow-white  bread, 
We  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  song. 
We  pluck'd  Avild  strawberries,  ripe  and  red, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not — 
For  loving  seem'd  like  breathing  then ; 
We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men ; 
And  dream'd  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  I  wander,  muse  alone  ; 
I  see  her  not ;  Ijut  that  old  song 
Under  the  fi'agrant  ^yill(\  is  blown, 
In  sunimer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood ; 
But  one  fair  spii'it  hears  my  sighs ; 
And  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good. 
The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 
Tliat  charm'd  me  under  earlier  skies. 


CARCLIITE.  73 

In  summer,  when  tlie  days  are  long, 
I  love  lier  as  we  loved  of  old  ; 
My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong ; 
For  love  brings  back  those  hom's  of  gold. 
In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

A::fONTMOUS. 


n. 


I'll  bid  the  hyacinth  to  blow, 
I'll  teach  my  grotto  green  to  be ; 

And  sing  my  true  love,  all  below 
The  holly  bower  and  myrtle-tree. 

There  all  his  wildwood  sweets  to  bring 
The  sweet  south  wind  shall  wander  by. 

And  with  the  music  of  his  wing. 
Delight  my  rustling  canopy. 

Come  to  my  close  and  clustering  bower, 
Thou  spirit  of  a  milder  clime, 

Fresh  with  the  dews  of  fruit  and  flower, 
Of  mountain  heatli,  and  moory  tliyme. 

"With  all  thy  rural  echoes  come. 
Sweet  comrade  of  the  rosy  day. 

Wafting  the  wild  bee's  gentle  hum, 
Or  cuckoo's  plaintive  roundelay. 
10 


Y4  CAROLINE, 


Where'er  tliy  morning  breatli  lias  play'd, 

Whatever  isles  of  ocean  fann'd, 
Come  to  my  blossom- woven  shade, 

Thou  wandering  wind  of  fairy-land. 

For  sure  from  some  enchanted  isle, 

Where  heaven  and  love  their  sabbath  hold, 

When  pure  and  happy  spirits  smile, 
Of  beauty's  fairest,  brightest  mould  ; — 

From  some  green  Eden  of  the  deep, 
Where  pleasure's  sigh  alone  is  heaved. 

Where  tears  of  rapture  lovers  weep. 
Endear' d — undoubting — undeceived  ; — 

From  some  sweet  Paradise  afar 

Thy  Music  wanders — distant — lost — 

Where  Nature  lights  her  leading  Star, 
And  love  is  never,  never,  cross'd. 

Oh  !  gentle  gale  of  Eden  bowers, 

If  back  thy  rosy  feet  should  roam 
To  revel  with  the  cloudless  hours 

In  Nature's  more  propitious  home, — 

Name  to  thy  loved  Elysian  groves, 

That  o'er  enchanted  Spirits  twine, 
A  fairer  form  than  Cherub  loves — 

And  let  the  name  be  Caroline. 

THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


MED  OR  A. 

The  Sun  liatli  sunk— and,  darker  tlian  tlie  niglit, 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height, 
Medora's  heart— the  thii'd  day's  come  and  gone— 
With  it  he  comes  not— sends  not— faithless  one  ! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light ;  and  storms  were  none. 
Last  eve  Anselmo's  bark  return'd,  and  yet, 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met ! 
Though  wild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale 
Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-breeze  freshens— she  that  day  had  pass'd 
In  watching  all  that  Hope  proclaim'd  a  mast ; 
Sadly  she  sate— on  high— Impatience  bore 
At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore, 
And  there  she  wander'd,  heedless  of  the  spray 
That  dash'd  her  garments  oft,  and  warn'd  away : 
She  saw  not— felt  not  this— nor  dared  depart, 
Nor  deem'd  it  cold— her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 
Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense— 
His  very  sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense  ! 


76  MEDORA. 

It  came  at  last — a  sad  and  sliatter'd  boat, 

"Whose  inmates  fii'st  belield  whom  first  they  sought ; 

Some  bleeding — all  most  ^vretched — these  the  few — 

Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped — tlih'  all  they  knew 

In  silence,  darkling,  each  apj^earVl  to  wait 

His  fellow's  mournful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate: 

Something  they  would  have  said  ;  but  seem'd  to  fear 

To  tmst  their  accents  to  Medora's  ear. 

She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not — treml)led  not — 

Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot ; 

Within  that  meek  fair  fonn,  were  feelings  high, 

That  deem'd  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 

While  yet  was  Hope — they  soften'd — flutter'd — ^^vept. 

All  lost — that  softness  died  not — but  it  slept ; 

And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which  said, 

"  With  nothing  left  to  love — there's  naught  to  dread. 

'Tis  more  than  nature's ;  like  the  burning  might 

Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"  Silent  you  stand — nor  would  I  hear  you  tell 
What — speak  not — breathe  not — for  I  know  it  well : 
Yet  ^vould  I  ask — almost  my  lip  denies 
The — quick  your  answer — tell  me  where  he  lies !  " 

"  Lady  !  we  know  not — scarce  ^\'ith  life  we  fled ; 
But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead : 
He  saw  him  bound  ;  and  bleeding — but  alive." 

She  heard  no  further — 'twas  in  vain  to  strive — 

So  throbb'd  each  vein — each  thought — till  then  withstood ; 

Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued ; 


MEDORA.  77 

Slie  totters — falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave 
Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave  ; 
But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weej^ing  eyes, 
They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  supj^lies : 
Dash  o'er  her  death-like  cheek  the  ocean  dew. 
Raise — ^fan — sustain — till  life  returns  anew ; 
Awake  her  handmaids,  mth  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  fonn  o'er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve : 
Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious — when  the  triumph  short. 

In  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strange, 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge ; 
All,  save  repose  of  flight :  still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair ; 
Whate'er  his  fate — the  breasts  he  form'd  and  led. 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Wo  to  his  foes  !  there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower. 
And  'midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower : 
He  looks  in  vain — 'tis  strange — and  all  remark, 
Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  dark. 
'Tis  strange — of  yore  its  welcome  never  fbil'd, 
Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguish'd,  only  veil'd. 
With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore, 
And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 
Oh  !  Ibr  a  Aviug  beyond  the  falcon's  flight. 
To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height !' 


78  MED  OR  A. 

Witli  ttie  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave, 
He  waits  not — looks  not — leaps  into  tlie  wave, 
Strives  througli  the  surge,  bestrides  the  beach,  and  high 
Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 


He  reach'd  this  turret  door — he  paused — no  sound 
Broke  from  within ;  and  all  was  night  around. 
He  knock'd,  and  loudly — footstep  nor  rej^ly 
Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh ; 
He  knock'd — ^but  faintly — for  his  trembling  hand 
Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens — 'tis  a  well-known  face — 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent — twice  his  own  essay'd. 
And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay'd ; 
He  snatch'd  the  lamp — its  light  will  answer  all — 
It  quits  his  grasp,  expmng  in  the  fall. 
He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray — 
As  soon  could  he  have  linger'd  there  for  day ; 
But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridore. 
Another  checkers  o'er  the  shadow'd  floor ; 
His  steps  the  chamber  gain — his  eyes  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believed  not — yet  foretold ! 

He  turn'd  not — spoke  not — sunk  not — fix'd  his  look. 

And  set  the  anxious  fi'ame  that  lately  shook : 

He  gazed — how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain. 

And  know,  but  dare  not  oa\ti,  we  gaze  in  vain ! 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair. 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there ; 


MEDORA.  79 

And  tlie  cold  flowers,  her  colder  liand  contain'd, 

In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 

As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep, 

And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep  : 

The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow, 

And  veil'd — thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'd  below — 

Oh  !  o'er  the  eye  Death  most  exerts  his  might, 

And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ; 

Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse. 

But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips — 

Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forbore  to  smile. 

And  wished  repose — ^but  only  for  a  while ; 

But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress. 

Long — fair — but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness. 

Which,  late  the  sj)ort  of  every  summer  wind, 

Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind ; 

These — and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier — 

But  she  is  nothing — wherefore  is  he  here  ? 

He  ask'd  no  question — all  were  answerVl  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  still,  marble  brow : 
It  was  enough — she  died — what  reck'd  it  how  ? 
The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 
The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tenderest  fears, 
The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate, 
Was  reft  at  once — and  he  deserved  his  fate, 
But  did  not  feel  it  less ; — the  good  explore, 
For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar : 
The  proud — the  wayward — who  have  fixed  below 
Their  joy,  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  wo, 


80  M  E  D  0  R  A . 

Lose  in  that  one  their  all — ^perchance  a  mite. 
But  wlio  in.  patience  parts  with  all  delight  ? 
Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stern 
Mask  hearts  Avhere  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn ; 
And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost, 
In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 


"'^. 


JULIA. 

The  age  of  roses — yet  tliy  clieek  is  pale  ! 

Of  future  dreams — yet  tHne  are  with  the  past ! 

Can  menioiy's  forms  along  thy  bosom  sail, 

And  on  thy  brow  no  darker  shadow  cast  ? 

Oh,  blessed  youth  ! — when  fond  remembrance  paints 

Her  landscapes  on  the  heart,  without  a  grave. 

And  whispers  to  the  spirit  no  complaints 

Save  the  sweet  sighing  of  time's  passing  wave ! — 

There  comes  a  day,  when  thought  is  like  the  steed, 

The  "pale  and  phantom-steed  bestrid  by  death. 

That  rides  o'er  corpses  ;— like  the  lightning's  speed. 

That,  what  it  brightens,  scorches  Avitli  its  breath  ! — 

When  memoiy  is  the  curfew  of  the  mind. 

That  only  speaks  to  tell  the  houa*  of  glooms ; 

Or, — with  the  maniac  whom  "  no  man  could  bind," — 

Makes  all  its  dwelling  in  the  place  of  tombs ! 

How  fair  a  thing  is  memory  to  thee  ! 
Thou  art  as  one  who  gazeth  on  a  star, 
Eejoicing  in  its  light — yet  silently, 
And  sad,  because  he  gazeth /row^  afar  ! 
11 


S2  JULIA. 

Remembrance — like  the  breeze  that  meets  hut  flowers,- 
Brings  fragrance  from  tliy  vale  of  vanisli'd  years ; 
Or  sinks  along  tliy  heart — like  de^v — in  showers 
That  di-aw  forth  sweetness,  while  they  fill  with  tears  !- 
Thought,  like  an  angel,  on  thy  forehead  sits, 
Clad  in  white  garments, — for  thy  brow  is  pale, 
As  theirs  are,  ever,  who  look  back, — ^as  fits 
The  nun  of  feeling,  wi'app'd  in  memory's  veil ! — 
As  one  who  listens  to  the  song  of  bii'ds, 
That  hide,  among  the  green  leaves,  from  her  sight, — 
Or  sits  and  muses  on  mysterious  words. 
Half-heard,  amid  the  watches  of  the  night, 
Or  dimly  dreamt, — art  thou  ! — (while  fancy  brings 
Around  thee  songs  that,  in  themselves,  are  glad. 
But  play'd  by  \Tiewless  hands,  on  viewless  strings, — 
And  tones  from  unseen  harj^s  are  ever  sad  !) — 
Not  ga}',  but  calm — not  soiTowful,  though  mild : — 
Oh  !  for  the  days  when  memory  was  a  child  ! 

T.    K.   IirRTEY. 


II. 


Let  me  for  once  describe  her — once — for  she 
Herself  hath  pass'd  into  my  memor^^, 
As  'twere  some  angel  image,  and  there  clings. 
Like  music  round  the  harp's  ^olian  strings  : 
A  word — a  breath  revives  her,  and  she  stands 
As  beautiful,  and  young,  and  free  fi'om  care. 
As  when  upon  the  Tyber's  yellow  sands 
She  loosen'd  to  the  winds  her  golden  hair. 


JULIA.  83 

In  almost  cliildliood  ;  and  in  pastime  run 

Like  young  Aurora  from  tlie  morning  sun. 

Oil !  never  was  a  fonn  so  delicate 

Fashion'd  in  dream  or  story,  to  create 

Wonder  or  love  in  man.     I  cannot  tell 

Half  of  the  charms  I  saw — I  see ;  but  well 

Each  one  became  her.     She  was  very  fair, 

And  young,  I  said ;  and  her  thick  tresses  were 

Of  the  bright  color  of  the  light  of  day : 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  dove's — like  Hebe's — or 

The  maiden  moon,  or  starlight  seen  afar, 

Or  like — some  eyes  I  know  but  may  not  say. 

Never  were  kisses  gather'cl  fi-om  such  lips, 

And  not  the  honey  which  the  wild  bee  sips 

From  flowers  that  on  the  thymy  mountains  grow 

Hard  by  Ilissus,  half  so  rich  : — Her  brow 

Was  darker  than  her  hair,  and  arch'd  and  fine, 

And  sunny  smiles  would  often,  often  shine 

Over  a  mouth  from  which  came  sounds  more  sweet 

Than  dying  winds,  or  waters  when  they  meet 

Gently,  and  seem  telling  and  talking  o'er 

The  silence  they  so  long  had  kept  before. 


III. 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying ; 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing ; 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying ; 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing  ; 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress ; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness ! 


84  JULIA. 


Tliou,  to  wlioni  I  love  to  hearken, 
Come,  ere  niglit  around  me  darken  ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou  'rt  true,  and  I'll  believe  thee ; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent, 
Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure ; 

All  I  ask  is  fi-iendship's  pleasure ; 

Let  the  shinins;  ore  lie  darkling: — • 

Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling ; 
Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me, 
I  would  only  look  to  thee : 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling, 

Ecstasy  but  in  revealing ; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deej)  sensation, 

Raj)ture  in  participation ; 

Yet  but  torture,  if  compress'd 
In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 


\ 


■>   A'- 


^ 


■      i 


HELENA. 

Why  mourns  the  dark-Lair'd  daughter  of  the  Isles  ? — 

Whose  free  glad  breezes,  and  whose  soft  pure  air, 

Should  waken  round  thee  only  flowers  and  smiles ; — 

Why  should  not  all  be  glad  where  all  is  fair ! 

If  beauty  to  the  beautiftd  be  joy. 

Thou  shouldst  be  joyous, — and  the  sunny  clime 

That  old  tradition  peopled  from  the  sky 

Should  ring  with  music  to  the  march  of  time  ; 

Scenes  where  the  soul  of  loveliness  so  long 

Hath  made  a  temple  of  each  vine-clad  hill, — 

Beautiful  valleys  where  the  breath  of  song 

Floats,  like  a  spirit,  o'er  each  haunted  rill, — 

Shores,  where  the  thoughts — that  have  not  died^ — liad  birtli, 

And  made  the  land  a  worship  to  the  earth  ! 

Alas,  the  mourner  ! — Greece  was,  then,  a  bride. 
With  Genius  for  her  dowry  ;  and  her  s])ouse 
Stood,  in  his  untamed  beauty,  by  her  side. 
The  youthful  Valor — of  an  ancient  house  ; 


86  HELENA. 

And  Freedom  was  tlieir  cliild  ! — tlie  boy  is  dead ! 

His  sire  died  &st ! — and  o'er  her  lonely  lot, 

The  widow  and  the  childless  hangs  her  head, 

Like  Rachael,  weeping  that  her  son  is  not ! — 

— "  He  is  not  dead,  but  sleejjeth  ! " — Hark  !  the  sea, 

The  wild,  glad  waters — with  their  revehy. 

That  gird  thee  round — have  language  in  their  waves, 

That  speaks,  like  trumpets,  to  a  land  of  slaves, — 

"  Remember  us,  the  tameless  and  the  free. 

When  the  mad  Persian  flung  his  chains  upon  the  sea  ! " 

Thy  very  sighs,  that  fetters  cannot  bind. 

Have  lessons  for  thee  ; — and  the  prophet-wind. 

That  walks  and  shouts  where'er  it  will,  a  tone 

Whose  meaning  should  have  echoes  in  thine  own  ! — 

They  shall  awake  him  ! — lo  !  he  is  awake. 

And  treads  the  mountains,  flinging  to  the  gale 

His  battle  cry  ! — yet  ah  !  the  voice  that  spake 

Of  old  was  louder, — and  his  cheek  is  pale, — 

And  years  have  done  him  wTong  ! — ^The  while  he  slept, 

Plis  father's  sword  hath  rusted,  and  his  own, — 

The  tears  have  scorched  him  that  his  mother  wept, 

And  half  the  beauty  of  his  youth  is  gone  ! 

And  thou,  sweet  lady  of  the  mourning  isles ! 
A  true-born  dausrhter  of  the  land  thou  art, 
That  smiles  not  till  she  sees  her  mother's  smiles ; — 
The  country's  chains  lie  heavy  on  thy  heart ! — 
Perchance,  like  her,  thott  art  a  widow  too, 
A  widow  and  an  orphan, — and  the  fate 
That  hcpt  her  thus,  hath,  haply,  made  thee  so, 
And  left  thee  lone — alone  and  desolate  ! — 


HELENA.  .  87 

Now,  in  thy  dreams,  amid  the  ruin'd  halls 

Of  thy  ^\Tong'd  land,  perchance  tliere  mingles  one, 

Whose  chambers, — echoing  back  the  waterfalls, — 

For  thee — for  thee  had  voices  of  their  o^^'n  ! 

Amid  thy  visions  of  thy  lofty  sires, — 

Whose  tombs  are  altars, — haply  there  may  be 

An  infant'' s  grave — whose  quiet  pomp  aspii*es 

To  be  a  shi'ine  to  thee — and  only  thee ! 

— But,  who  shall  read  the  sign  upon  thy  brow. 

Save  that  its  tale  is  soitow  ? — J^ven  iwiv, 

Thine  and  thy  country's  portion  is  to  mourn  ; — 

Oh  !  much  is  lost  that  never  can  return. 

And  fancy  paints  not  Greece — without  her  funeral  Urn ! 

T.  K.  HEEVET. 


n. 

Tkcstk  ye  the  desolate  must  live  apart. 

By  solemn  vows  to  convent-walls  confined  ? 

Ah  !  no  ;  Vvith  men  may  dwell  the  cloister'd  heart. 

And  in  a  crowd  the  isolated  mind. 

Tearless,  behind  the  prison-bars  of  fate 

The  world  sees  not  how  desolate  they  stand, 

Gazing  so  fondly  through  the  iron  grate 

Upon  the  promised  yet  forbidden  land — 

Patience  the  shrine  to  which  their  bleeding  feet, 

Day  after  day,  in  voiceless  pennace  turn  ; 

Silence  the  holy  cell  and  calm  retreat 

In  ^vhich  unseen  their  meek  devotions  l)urn ; 

Life  is  to  them  a  vigil  which  none  share, 

Their  hopes  a  sacrifice,  their  love  a  prayer. 

IIENItV  T.  TUCKERMAN. 


88  HELENA, 


III. 

Natuee  did  lier  so  mucli  right 
As  she  scorns  the  helj)  of  art. 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 

As  e'er  yet  embraced  a  heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 

To  make  known  how  much  she  hath ; 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 

Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 
Full  of  pity  as  may  be. 
Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 

Reason  masters  every  sense. 

And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth ; 

Lovely  as  all  excellence, 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth. 

Likelihood  enough  to  prove 

Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 


WILLIAM  BEO-n-NE. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    lORMAN    ABBEY. 


-Lo !  a  monk,  arrayVl 


In  cowl  and  beads,  and  dusky  garb,  appear'd, 
Now  in  the  moonliglit,  and  now  laj)sed  in  sliade, 

"W  itli  steps  tliat  trod  as  lieavy,  yet  unlieard ; 
His  garments  only  a  sliglit  murmur  made ; 

He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird, 
But  slowly ;  and  as  he  pass'd  Juan  by. 
Glanced,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  bright  eye. 

Juan  was  petrified  ;  he  had  heard  a  hint 
Of  such  a  spirit  in  these  halls  of  old. 

But  thought,  like  most  men,  there  was  nothing  in  't 
Beyond  the  rumor  which  such  spots  unfold, 

Coin'd  irom  surviving  superstition's  mint, 
Which  passes  ghosts  in  cuiTency  like  gold, 

But  rarely  seen,  like  gold  compared  with  paper, 

And  did  he  see  this  ?  or  was  it  a  vapor  ? 

12 


90  THE    SPIRIT     or    NORMAN     ABBEY. 

Once,  twice,  tlirice  pass'd,  repass'd — the  thing  of  aii-. 
Or  earth  beneath,  or  heaven,  or  t'  other  place : 

And  Juan  gazed  upon  it  with  a  stare, 

Yet  could  not  speak  or  move  ;  but,  on  its  base' 

As  stands  a  statue,  stood :  he  felt  his  hair 
Tmne  like  a  knot  of  snakes  around  his  face ; 

He  tax'd  his  tongue  for  words,  which  were  not  granted. 

To  ask  the  reverend  person  w^hat  he  wanted. 

The  third  time,  after  a  still  longer  pause. 

The  shadow  pass'd  away — but  where  ?  the  hall 

Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great  cause 
To  think  his  vanishing  unnatural : 

Doors  there  were  many,  through  which,  by  the  laws 
Of  physics,  bodies  whether  short  or  tall 

Might  come  or  go  ;  but  Juan  could  not  state 

Through  which  the  sj)ectre  seem'd  to  evaporate. 

He  stood — how  long,  he  knew  not,  but  it  seem'd 
An  age — expectant,  powerless,  with  his  eyes 

StraiuVl  on  the  sj)ot  where  first  the  figure  gleam'd ; 
Then  by  degrees  recall'd  his  energies. 

And  would  have  pass'd  the  whole  off  as  a  dream, 
But  could  not  wake ;  he  was,  he  did  surmise. 

Waking  ah-eady,  and  return'd  at  length 

Back  to  his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  his  strength. 

The  door  flew  wide,  not  swiftly, — but,  as  fly 
The  sea-gulls,  with  a  steady,  sober  flight — 

And  then  swung  back ;  nor  close — but  stood  awry. 
Half  letting  in  long  shadows  on  the  light, 


THE     SPIRIT     OF    XORMAX     ABBEY.  91 

Which  still  iu  Juan's  candlesticks  burn'd  high, 

For  he  had  two,  both  tolerably  bright, 
And  in  the  door-way,  darkening  darkness,  stood 
The  sable  £i*aii'  in  his  solemn  hood. 

Don  Juan  shook,  as  erst  he  had  been  shaken 
The  night  before ;  but  being  sick  of  shaking, 

He  first  inclined  to  think  he  had  been  mistaken  ; 
And  then  to  be  ashamed  of  such  mistaking ; 

His  own  internal  ghost  began  to  awaken 

Within  him,  and  to  c^uell  his  corporal  quaking — 

Hinting  that  soul  and  body  on  the  whole 

Were  odds  ascainst  a  disembodied  soul. 


o 


And  then  his  dread  grew  wrath,  and  his  wrath  fierce, 
And  he  arose,  advanced — the  shade  retreated : 

But  Juan,  eager  now  the  tnith  to  pierce, 

FoUow'd,  his  viens  no  longer  cold,  but  heated. 

Resolved  to  trust  the  mystery  carte  and  tierce, 
At  whatsoever  risk  of  being  defeated : 

The  ghost  stopp'd,  menaced,  then  retired,  until 

He  reach'd  the  ancient  wall,  then  stood  stone-still. 

Juan  put  forth  one  arm — Eternal  powers  ! 

It  touch'd  no  soul,  no  body,  but  the  wall, 
On  which  the  moonbeams  fell  in  silvery  showers, 

Checker'd  with  all  the  tracery  of  tlui  hall ; 
He  shudder'd,  as  no  doubt  the  bravest  cowers 

When  he  can't  tell  what  'tis  that  doth  ajipal. 
How  odd,  a  single  hobgoblin's  nonentity 
Should  cause  more  fear  than  a  whole  host's  identity. 


92  THE     SPIRIT    OF    NORMAN     ABBEY. 

But  still  the  shade  remain'd :  the  blue  eyes  glared, 
And  rather  variably  for  stouy  death ; 

Yet  one  thing  rather  good  the  grave  hath  sj^ared, 
The  ghost  had  a  remarkbly  sweet  breath : 

A  stras^cjlinof  curl  show'd  he  had  been  fair-hair'd ; 
A  red  lip,  "vvith  two  rows  of  pearls  beneath. 

Gleam VI  forth,  as  through  the  casements'  ivy  shroud 

The  moon  peep'd,  just  escaped  from  a  gray  cloud. 

And  Juan,  puzzled,  but  still  curious,  thrust 
His  other  arm  forth — Wonder  upon  wonder  ! 

It  pressed  upon  a  hard  but  glowing  bust. 

Which  beat  as  if  there  was  a  warm  heart  under. 

He  found,  as  people  on  most  trials  must, 
That  he  had  made  at  first  a  silly  blunder. 

And  that  in  his  confusion  he  had  caught 

Only  the  wall,  instead  of  what  he  sought. 

The  ghost,  if  ghost  it  were,  seem'd  a  sweet  soul 
As  ever  lurh'd  beneath  a  holy  hood : 

A  dimpled  chin,  a  neck  of  ivory,  stole 

Forth  into  something  much  like  flesh  and  blood ; 

Back  fell  the  sable  frock  and  dreary  cowl. 

And  they  reveal' d — alas  !  that  e'er  they  should  ! — 

In  fall,  voluptuous,  but  7iot  o'ergYown  bullc, 

The  phantom  of  her  frolic  Grace — Fitz-Fulke ! 

BYEON. 


/  ^ 


SOPHY. 

Men  say  tliere  is  a  gentle  flower, 
That,  born  beneatli  an  eastern  sky, 
Witliout  tlie  gift  of  sun  or  sliower. 
Gives  out  its  precious  sigli ; 
That — ^^itli  affection — sweetly  dwells 
Beneatli  the  Indian's  stately  dome, 
Or  freely  throws  its  fragrant  spells 
Around  his  lowly  home, — 
Fed  only  by  the  sacred  air 
That,  as  a  spirit,  hovers  there ! 

And  thou  art  like  that  fairy  thing, 
Though  gifted  by  a  colder  sky. 
With  scent  and  bloom,  too  pure  to  fling 
Before  the  passer-by ; — 
Who,  with  the  star-flowers  of  thine  eyes, 
Couldst  brighten  still  the  brightest  lot. 
Or  with  thy  fond  and  fragrant  sighs. 
Make  rich  the  poor  man's  cot ! — 


94  SOPHY. 


An  Englisli  Ruth, — in  good  or  ill, 
To  follow  ^vheresoe'er  we  roam, 
And  liang  thy  precious  garlands,  still. 
Amid  the  breath  of  home  ! 

— My  weary  heart !  my  weary  heart ! 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing 

To  wander  from  the  crowd  apart, 

When  faint  and  chill'd  and  worn  thou  art, 

And  fold  thy  restless  wing. 

Beside  the  sweet  and  quiet  streams, 

Where  grow  life's  lily-bells, — 

And  peace — that  feeds  on  haj)j)y  dreams, 

And  utters  music — dwells, — 

And  Love,  beside  the  gushing  springs. 

Like  some  young  Naiad,  sits  and  sings ! 

To  leave,  awhile,  the  barren  height, 

Where  thou,  too  long,  hast  striven. 

As  if  the  spirit's  ujnvard  flight 

Had  been  the  path  to  heaven ; — 

And  musing  by  love's  haunted  rill, 

Earth's  "river  of  the  blest," 

To  see  how  sweetly  heaven,  still, 

Is  min^or'd  on  its  breast. 

And  feel  thou,  there,  art  nearer  far 

To  that  bright  land  of  sun  and  star ! 


T.  K.  HEKYET. 


t 


RUTH. 

When-  Eutli  was  left  lialf  desolate, 
Her  Father  took  another  Mate ; 
And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
A  slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill. 
In  thoughtless  fi'eedom,  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a  pij^e  of  straw. 
And  music  from  that  j^ipe  could  draw 
Like  sounds  of  winds  and  floods ; 
Had  ]3uilt  a  bower  upon  the  green. 
As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  father's  roof,  alone 

She  seem'd  to  live ;  her  thoughts  her  own  ; 

Herself  her  own  deliglit ; 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad,  nor  gay ; 

And,  i^assing  thus  the  livelong  day. 

She  grew  to  woman's  height. 


96  RUTH. 

There  came  a  Youtli  from  Georgia's  shore,- 

A  military  casque  lie  wore, 

Witli  splendid  feathers  drest ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze, 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung : 
But  no  !  he  spake  the  English  tongue. 
And  bore  a  soldier's  name  ; 
And,  when  America  was  free 
From  battle  and  from  jeopardy, 
He  'cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek, 

In  finest  tones  the  Youth  could  speak  :— 

While  he  was  yet  a  boy. 

The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun. 

And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run, 

Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  Youth  !  I  guess 

The  panther  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  so  fail'  as  he ; 

And  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play. 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought. 
And  with  him  may  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear ; 


RUTH.  07 

Sucli  tales  as  told  to  any  maid 

By  such  a  Youth,  in  the  gi-een  shade, 

Were  perilous  to  hear. 

He  told  of  girls — a  happy  rout ! — 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 

Their  pleasant  Indian  town, 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long ; 

Returnino;  with  a  choral  sono* 

When  daylight  is  gone  down. 

He  spake* of  plants  that  hourly  change 
Their  blossoms,  through  a  boundless  range 
Of  intermingling  hues ; 
With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers, 
They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  magnolia  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  over  head  ! 
The  cypress  and  her  spire  ; — 
Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  Youth  of  green  savannas  spake 

And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake, 

With  all  its  fairy  crowds 

Of  islands,  that  together  lie. 

As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 

Among  the  evening  clouds. 
13 


98  RUTH. 

"  How  pleasant,"  then  lie  said,  "  it  were, 
A  fislier  or  a  hunter  there, 
In  sunshine  or  in  shade 
To  wander  with  an  easy  mind ; 
And  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 
A  home  in  every  glade  ! 

"  What  davs  and  what  brio-ht  years  !     Ah  me ! 
Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 
So  pass'd  in  quiet  bliss. 
And  all  the  while,"  said  he,  "  to  know 
That  Ave  are  in  a  world  of  woe, 
On  such  an  earth  as  this  !  " 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Fond  thoughts  about  a  father's  love  : 
"  For  there,"  said  he,  "  are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 
That  our  o^vn  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

"  Sweet  Ruth !  and  could  you  go  with  me 
My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be. 
Our  shed  at  night  to  rear  ; 
Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride, 
A  sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 
And  drive  the  flying  deer  ! 


"  Beloved  Ruth  ! " — No  more  he  said. 
The  wakeful  Ri] 
A  solitary  tear : 


The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 


RUTH.  99 


She  thouglit  again, — and  did  agree, 
With  liim  to  sail  across  tlie  sea. 
And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

"  And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right, 
We  in  the  church  our  faith  will  plight, 
A  husband  and  a  wife." 
Even  so  they  did ;  and  I  may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink. 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That  on  those  lonesome  floods. 
And  green  savannas,  she  should  share 
.His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told. 
This  Strij)ling,  sj)ortive,  gay,  and  bold. 
And  with  his  dancing  crest, 
So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roamed  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  West. 

The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high. 
The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky, 
Mio-ht  well  be  danixerous  food 
For  him,  a  Youth  to  whom  was  given 
So  much  of  earth,  so  much  of  heaven. 
And  such  impetuous  blood. 


100  RUTH. 

Whatever  in  tliose  climes  lie  found 
Irregular  in  siglit  or  sound 
Did  to  Lis  mind  impart 
A  kindred  impulse,  seem'd  allied 
To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 
Tlie  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought. 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wi'ought. 
Fair  trees  and  gorgeous  flowers ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent ; 
The  stars  had  feelings  which  they  sent 
Into  those  favor'd  bowers. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 
For  passions  link'd  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw. 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  known ; 
Deliberately,  and  undeceived. 
Those  wild  men's  vices  he  received, 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impaired,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires : 


RUTH.  101 

A  Man  who  mtliout  self-control 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admii'es. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feign'd  delight 
Had  woo'd  the  Maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn : 
What  could  he  less  than  love  a  Maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  play'd  ? 
So  hind  and  so  forlorn  ! 

Sometimes,  most  earnestly,  he  said, 

"  O  Ruth  !  I  have  been  worse  than  dead ; 

False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain, 

Encompass'd  me  on  every  side 

When  I,  in  confidence  and  pride. 

Had  cross'd  the  Atlantic  main. 

^'  Before  me  shone  a  glorious  world, 
Fresh  as  a  banner  bright,  unfm^'d 
To  music  suddenly : 
I  look'd  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 
And  seem'd  as  if  let  loose  from  chains, 
To  live  at  liberty. 

"  No  more  of  this ;  for  now,  by  thee, 
Dear  llutli !  more  hap2:)ily  set  fi'ee, 
With  nobler  zeal  I  Inirn ; 
My  soul  from  darkness  is  released, 
Like  the  whole  sky  when  to  the  cast 
The  morning  doth  return." 


102  RUTH. 

Full  soon  tliat  better  mind  was  gone ; 
No  hope,  no  wish,  remain'cl,  not  one, — 
They  stirr'd  him  now  no  more  ; 
New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give. 
And  once  as-ain  he  wish'd  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared. 
And  went  to  the  sea-shore  ; 
But  when  they  thither  came,  the  Youth 
Deserted  his  poor  Bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more. 

God  help  thee,  Ruth  ! — Such  pains  she  had 

That  she  in  half  a  year  was  mad. 

And  in  a  prison  housed ; 

And  there,  with  many  a  doleful  song 

Made  of  wild  words,  her  cup  of  ^\Tong 

She  fearfully  caroused. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 
No  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  no  dew. 
Nor  pastimes  of  the  May ; — 
They  all  were  mth  her  in  her  cell ; 
And  a  clear  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play. 

When  Ruth  the  seasons  thus  had  lain, 
There  came  a  respite  to  her  pain  ; 
She  from  her  prison  fled  ; 


RUTH.  103 


But  of  tlie  Vacant  none  took  tlioucrlit ; 
And  where  it  liked  her  best  slie  souelit 
Her  shelter  and  lier  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again  : 
The  master-cun^ent  of  her  brain 
Kan  permanent  and  free ; 
And,  coming  to  the  Banks  of  Tone, 
There  did  she  rest,  and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 

That  shaped  her  soitow,  rocks  and  pools, 

And  airs  that  gently  stir 

The  vernal  leaves, — she  loved  them  still ; 

Nor  ever  taxed  them  with  the  ill 

Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A  Barn  her  winter  bed  supplies ; 

But  till  the  warmth  of  summer  skies 

And  summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree,) 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  hath  none. 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray  ! 

And  Buth  will,  long  before  her  day, 

Be  broken  down  and  old  : 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have  !  but  less 

Of  mind  than  body's  wretchedness. 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 


104  RUTH. 

If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food, 
She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 
Repairs  to  a  road-side ; 
And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place 
Where  up  and  down,  with  easy  pace, 
The  horseman-travellers  ride. 

That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute, 
Or  thro^vn  away  ;  but  \vith  a  flute 
Her  loneliness  she  cheers  : 
This  flute,  made  of  a  hemlock  stalk. 
At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 
The  Quantock  woodman  hears. 

I,  too,  have  pass'd  her  on  the  hills 
Setting  her  little  water-mills 
By  S2:)outs  and  fountains  wild, — 
Such  small  machinery  as  she  turn'd 
Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourn'd, 
A  young  and  happy  Child  ! 

Farewell !  and  when  thy  days  are  told, 

Ill-fiited  Ruth,  in  hallow'd  mould 

Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be. 

For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring. 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 

A  Chi'istian  psalm  for  thee. 

WILLIAM  WOEDSWOETH. 


THE    WIDOW. 

The  courtly  hall  is  gleaming  bright 

With  fashion's  graceful  throng — 

All  hearts  are  chain'd  in  still  delight, 

For  like  the  heaven-borne  voice  of  nig-ht 

Breathes  Handel's  sacred  song. 

Nor  on  my  spirit  melts  in  vain 

The  deep — the  wild — the  mournful  strain 

That  fills  the  echoing  hall 

(Though  many  a  callous  soul  be  there) 

With  sighs,  and  sobs,  and  cherish'd  pain — 

— While  on  a  face,  as  seraph's  fair, 

Mine  eyes  in  sadness  fall. 


Not  those  the  tears  that  smilins:  flow 

As  fancied  sorrow  bleeds, 

Like  dew  upon  the  rose's  glow ; 

— That  lady,  'mid  the  glittering  show 

Is  clothed  in  Widow's  weeds. 
14 


106  THE     WIDOW 


She  sits  in  reverie  profound, 
And  drinks  and  lives  upon  tlie  sound 
As  if  she  ne'er  would  wake  ! 
Her  closed  eyes  cannot  hold  the  tears 
That  tell  what  dreams  her  soul  have  bound- 
In  memory  they  of  other  years 
For  a  dead  husband's  sake. 
Methinks  her  inmost  soul  lies  sj)read 
Before  my  tearful  sight — 
A  garden  w^hose  best  flowers  are  dead, 
A  sky  still  fair  (though  darkened) 
With  hues  of  lingering  light. 


I  see  the  varying  feelings  chase 
Each  other  o'er  her  pallid  face. 
From  shade  to  deepest  gloom. 
She  thinks  on  li™g  objects  dear, 
And  pleasure  lends  a  cheerful  grace ; 
But  oh  !  that  look  so  dim  and  drear, 
— Her  heart  is  in  the  tomb. 


Kivalling  the  tender  crescent  moon 
The  star  of  evening  shines — 
A  waiTQ,  still,  balmy  night  of  June, 
Low-munnuring  wiith  a  fitful  tune 
From  yonder  grove  of  pines. 
In  the  silence  of  that  starry  sky. 
Exchanging  vows  of  constancy. 
Two  happy  lovers  stray. 


THE    WIDOW.  107 

— ^To  ter  how  sad  and  strange  !  to  know, 
In  darkness  while  the  phantoms  fade, 
That  one  a  wddow'd  wTetch  is  now, 
The  other  in  the  clay. 


A  wilder  gleam  disturl3S  her  eye. 
Oh,  hush  the  deepening  strain  ! 
And  must  the  youthful  wamor  die  ? 
A  gorgeous  funeral  passes  by, 
The  dead-march  stuns  her  brain. 
The  singing  voice  she  hears  no  more. 
Across  his  gi'ave  the  thunders  roar  ! 
How  weeps  yon  gallant  band 
O'er  him  their  valor  could  not  save ! 
For  the  bayonet  is  red  wdth  gore 
And  he,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
Now  sleeps  in  Egypt's  sand. 

The  song  dies  'mid  the  silent  strings. 

And  the  Hall  is  now  alive 

With  a  thousand  gay  and  fluttering  things ;- 

— ^The  noise  to  her  a  comfort  brings, 

Her  heart  and  soul  revive. 

With  solemn  pace  and  loving  pride 

She  walks  by  her  fair  daughter's  side, 

Who  views  with  young  deliglit 

The  gaudy  sj^arkling  revelry, — 

Unconscious  that  from  far  and  wide 

On  her  is  turn'd  each  charmed  eye, 

The  beauty  of  the  night. 


108  THE    WIDOW. 


A  spii'it  she,  and  Joy  her  name ! 

She  walks  upon  the  air ; 

Grace  swims  throughout  her  fragile  fr*ame, 

And  glistens  like  a  lambent  flame, 

Amid  her  golden  hair. 

Her  eyes  are  of  the  heavenly  blue, 

A  cloudless  twilight  bathed  in  dew ; 

The  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

Like  the  roses  of  the  vernal  year 

That  lend  the  vii'gin  snow  their  hue — 

And  oh,  what  pure  delight  to  hear 

The  gentle  vision  speak ! 

Yet,  dearer  than  that  rosy  glow 

To  me  yon  cheek  so  wan ; 

Lovely,  I  thought  it  long  ago, 

But  lovelier  far  now  blanch'd  with  wo 

Like  the  breast-down  of  the  Swan. 

Lovely  thou  art !  yet  none  may  dare 
That  placid  soul  to  move. 
Most  beautiful  thy  braided  hair, 
But  awful  holiness  breathes  there, 
Unmeet  for  earthly  love. 
More  touching  far  than  deep  distress 
Thy  smiles  of  languid  happiness. 
That  like  the  gleams  of  Even 
O'er  thy  calm  cheek  serenely  play. 
— ^Thus  at  the  silent  hour  we  bless, 
Unmindful  of  the  joyous  day, 
The  still  sad  face  of  heaven. 

PEOFESSOK    TVILSOIT. 


THE    FAIR    PATRICIAN. 

She  came  amidst  tlie  lovely  and  tlie  proud, 

Peerless ;  and  when  slie  moved,  the  gallant  crowd 

Divided,  as  the  obsequious  vapors  light 

Divide  to  let  the  queen-moon  pass  by  night : 

Then  looks  of  love  were  seen,  and  many  a  sigh 

Was  wasted  on  the  air,  and  some  aloud 

Talked  of  the  pangs  they  felt  and  swore  to  die  : — 

She,  like  the  solitary  rose  that  springs 

In  the  first  warmth  of  summer  days,  and  flings 

A  perfume  the  more  sweet  because  alone — 

Just  bursting  into  beauty,  with  a  zone 

Half  girl's,  half  woman's,  smiled  and  then  forgot 

Those  gentle  things  to  which  she  answer'd  not. 

But  when  Colonna's  heir  bespoke  her  hand, 

And  led  her  to  the  dance,  she  question'd  Avhy 

His  brother  join'd  not  in  that  revelry : 

Careless  he  turn'd  aside,  and  did  command 

Loudly  the  many  instruments  to  sound. 

And  well  did  that  young  couple  tread  the  ground 


110  THE    FAIR    PATRICIAN. 

Eacli  step  was  lost  in  each  accordant  note, 

Wliicli  tln-ougli  the  palace  seem'd  that  night  to  float 

As  merrily,  as  though  the  Satyr-god 

With  his  inspiring  reed,  (the  mighty  Pan,) 

Had  left  his  old  Arcadian  woods,  and  trod 

Piping  along  the  shores  Italian. 

Again  she  asked  in  vain  :  yet,  as  he  turn'd 
(The  brother)  from  her,  a  fierce  color  bui^n'd 
Upon  his  cheek,  and  fading  left  it  pale 
As  death,  and  half  proclaim'd  the  guilty  tale. 
— She  dwelt  upon  that  night  till  pity  grew 
Into  a  wilder  passion :  the  sweet  dew 
That  linger'd  in  her  eye  "  for  pity's  sake," 
Was  (like  an  exhalation  in  the  sun) 
Dried  and  absorb' d  by  love.     Oh !  Love  can  take 
What  shape  he  pleases,  and  when  once  begun 
His  fieiy  inroad  in  the  soul,  how  vain 
The  after-knowledge  which  his  presence  gives ! 
We  weep  or  rave,  but  still  he  lives  and  lives, 
Master  and  lord,  'midst  pride  and  tears  and  pain. 

*  %  -X-  *  -X-  * 

Then  Marcian  sought  his  home.     A  ghastly  gloom 
Hung  o'er  the  pillars  and  the  wrecks  of  Rome. 
Unlike  he  was  in  boyhood, — yet  so  grave 
They  doubted  sometimes  if  he  quite  forgave 
The  past ;  and  then  there  play'd  a  moody  smile 
About  his  mouth,  and  he  at  times  would  speak 
Of  one  with  heavenly  bloom  upon  her  cheek, 
Whose  vision  did  his  convent  hours  beguile ; 
A  phantom  shape,  and  which  in  sleep  still  came 
And  fann'd  the  color  of  his  cheek  to  flame.— 


THE    FAIR    PATRICIAN.  Ill 

Sometimes  lias  lie  been  known  to  gaze  afar 
WatcLing  tlie  coming  of  the  evening  star, 
And  as  it  progress'd  toward  tlie  middle  sky, 
Like  the  still  twilight's  lonely  deity, 
Would  fancy  that  a  spirit  resided  there, 
A  gentle  spirit  and  young,  with  golden  hail*, 
And  eyes  as  blue  as  the  blue  dome  above, 
And  a  voice  as  tender  as  the  sound  of  love. 

— One  morning  as  he  lay  half  listlessly 
Within  the  shadow  of  a  column,  where 
His  forehead  met  such  gusts  of  cooling  air 
As  the  bright  summer  knows  in  Italy, 
A  gorgeous  cavalcade  went  thundering  by, 
Dusty,  and  worn  with  travel :  As  it  pass'd. 
Some  said  the  great  Count  had  return'd,  at  last, 
From  his  long  absence  upon  foreign  lands : 
'Twas  told  that  many  countries  he  had  seen, 
(He  and  his  lady  daughter,)  and  had  been 
A  long  time  journeying  on  the  Syrian  sands, 
And  visited  holy  spots,  and  places  where 
The  Christian  roused  the  Pa2:an  from  his  lair. 
And  taught  him  charity  and  creeds  divine, 
By  spilling  his  bright  blood  in  Palestine. 

And  Julia  saw  the  youth  she  loved  again: 
But  he  was.  now  the  great  Colonna's  heir, 
And  she  whom  he  had  left  so  young  and  fair, 
A  few  short  years  ago,  was  grown,  with  pain 
Of  thoughts  unutter'd,  (a  heart-eating  care,) 
Pale  as  a  statue.     When  he  met  her  first, 
He  gazed  and  gasp'd  as  though  his  heart  would  burst. 


112  THE    FAIR    PATRICIAN. 

Her  fiorure  came  before  him  like  a  dream 

Reveal'd  at  morning,  and  a  sunny  gleam 

Broke  in  upon  Lis  soul  and  lit  his  eye 

With  something  of  a  tender  prophecy. 

And  was  she  then  the  shape  he  oft  had  seen, 

By  day  and  night, — she  who  had  such  strange  power 

Over  the  terrors  of  his  wildest  horn*  ? 

And  was  it  not  a  phantom  that  had  been 

Wandering  about  him  ?     Oh,  with  that  deep  fear 

He  listen'd  now,  to  mark  if  he  could  hear 

The  voice  that  lull'd  him, — but  she  never  spoke ; 

For  in  her  heart  her  o^vn  young  love  awoke 

From  its  long  slumber,  and  chain'd  do^vn  her  tongue, 

And  she  sate  mute  before  him  :  he,  the  while. 

Stood  feasting  on  her  melancholy  smile. 

Till  o'er  his  eyes  a  dizzy  vapor  hung, 

And  he  rush'd  forth  into  the  freshening  air. 

Which  kiss'd  and  play'd  about  his  temples  bare, 

And  he  grew  calm.     Not  unobserved  he  fled. 

For  she  who  mourn'd  him  once  as  lost  and  dead, 

Saw  with  a  glance,  as  none  but  women  see, 

His  secret  passion,  and  home  silently 

She  went  rejoicing,  till  Vitelli  ask'd 

"  W^herefore  her  spuit  fell," — and  then  she  task'd 

Her  fancy  for  excuse  wherewith  to  hide 

Her  thoughts  and  turn  his  curious  gaze  aside. 

*  *  *  *  4fr  * 

It  was  the  voice — the  very  voice  that  rung 
Long  in  his  brain  that  now  so  sweetly  sung. — 
Whither,  ah  !  whither  is  my  lost  love  straying — 


THE    FAIR    PATRICIAN.  113 

Upon  what  pleasant  land  beyond  the  sea  ? 
Oh  !  ye  winds  now  playing 
Like  airy  spirits  round  my  temples  free, 
Fly  and  tell  him  this  from  me : 

Tell,  him,  sweet  winds,  that  in  my  woman's  bosom 

My  young  love  still  retains  its  perfect  power, 

Or,  like  the  summer  blossom, 

That  changes  still  from  bud  to  the  full-blown  flower, 

Grows  ^vith  every  passing  hour. 

Say  (and  say  gently)  that  since  we  two  parted. 

How  little  joy — much  sorrow  I  have  known : 

Only  not  broken-hearted 

Because  I  muse  upon  bright  moments  gone. 

And  dream  and  think  of  him  alone. 

*  «-  -%■  *  *  -» 

■ — He  soothed  her  for  a  time,  and  she  grew  calm, 

For  lover's  language  is  the  sm'est  balm 

To  hearts  that  sorrow  much  :  that  night  they  parted 

With  kisses  and  with  tears,  but  both  light-hearted. 

And  many  a  vow  was  made  and  promise  spoke. 

And  well  believed  by  both  and  never  broke  : 

They  parted,  but  froixi  that  time  often  met, 

In  that  same  garden  when  the  sun  had  set. 

And  for  a  while  Colonna's  mind  forgot, 

In  the  fair  present  hour,  his  future  lot. 

Sleep  softly,  on  your  bridal  pillows,  sleep. 
Excellent  pair  !  hajij^y  and  young  and  true  ; 
And  o'er  your  days,  and  o'er  your  slumbers  deep 
And  airy  dreams,  may  Love's  divinest  dew 


1^^  THE    FAIR    PATRICIAN. 

Be  scatter'd  like  tlie  April  rains  of  heaven : 
And  may  your  tender  words,  wMsper'd  at  even, 
Be  v,^oven  into  music ;  and,  as  the  wind 
Leaves  when  it  flies  a  sweetness  still  behind. 
When  distant,  may  each  silver  sounding  tone 
"Weigh  on  the  other's  heart,  and  bring  (though  gone) 
The.  absent  back ;  and  may  no  envy  sever 
Your  joys,  but  may  each  love — be  loved  for  ever. 

BAEEY  CORNWALL. 


THE    GENTLE    STUDENT. 


I. 


Life's  golden  age  ! — ^wlien  all  it  knows  of  grief 

Is  gatlier'd  from  tlie  records  grief  hath  given ; 

And  youthful  pity  reads  the  tragic  leaf, 

As  angels  read  the  leaves  of  fate,  in  heaven, 

Unstain'd  themselves,  yet  weeping  for  the  stain 

That  dims  the  spirits  of  a  darker  birth, 

And  grieving — with  a  grief  that  is  not  pain — 

Above  the  mourners  of  the  mom^ning  earth ! 

The  age  when  very  tears  are  sweet ! — the  tears 

Of  children  and  of  angels  cannot  flow 

From  bitter  founts ;  and  sadness,  when  she  hears 

And  weeps  the  woes  of  others,  is  not  woe ! 

The  young,  sweet  season,  when  the  heai-t,  as  yet. 

Is  but  a  student  in  the  lore  of  sighs, 

Ere  years  have  made  the  spirit  wise,  or  set 

Their  crowns  of  anguish  o'er  the  darken'd  eyes-! 


110  THE     GENTLE     STUDENT. 

Sweet  student ! — wlio  dost  read  all  tales  as  truth 


By  tlie  brigM  lights  of  tliine  own  bless'd  age, 

And,  with  the  fleeting  alchemy  of  youth. 

Canst  draw  out  pleasui'e  from  the  saddest  page, — 

What  is  the  legend  that  enchains  thee,  now  ? 

Of  him  who  "  loved  not  wisely  but  too  well "  ? — 

Or  her  Avhose  dark  and  oriental  brow 

Held  the  world's  masters  in  its  swarthy  spell  ? — 

Or  laughing  Beatrice,  who  flung  around 

Her  shafts,  until  they  pierced  her  own  wild  heart  ? — 

Or  Ruth,  an-hunger'd  upon  stranger-ground  ? — 

Or  Hagar,  in  the  "\\dlderness  apart. 

And  fed  by  angels  ? — or  the  solemn  tale 

Of  those  who  wander'd  fi'om  the  happy  vale. 

The  bright  Amharan  valley  ? — Who  shall  say  ? 

I  read  no  title  on  thy  pictm'ed  book ; 

And  from  its  leaves  my  spii'it  turns  away, 

Upon  a  higher  page — in  vain — to  look. 

Thy  fair,  young  forehead  ! — oh  !  that  I  might  see 

The  volume  of  thy  future  years  uuroU'd  ! — 

Shall  they  who  read  it  weep  or  smile  for  thee  ? — 

How  shall  the  stoiy  of  thy  fate  be  told  ? — 

Of  all  the  tales  that  charm  thy  fancy,  now. 

With  imaged  fortunes,  which  shall  be  thine  o^\ti  ? — 

No  sign  is  printed  on  thy  spotless  brow, 

Of  all  the  store — hereafter  to  be  knowTi — 

Of  written  thought,  A^^thin, — the  hidden  dreams 

To  be  unfolded  as  the  work  is  read  ; — 

No  index  of  the  glad  or  mournful  themes 

Along  its  pages,  by  their  author  spread  ! 


THE     GENTLE     STUDENT.  117 

The  story  can  be  learnt  by  Time,  alone, 
Tlie  leaves  can  but  be  open'd,  one  by  one  ! — 
To  me,  thy  book  and  thou — in  thy  sweet  age, — 
Alike  are  tales  without  a  title-page  ! 

T.  K.  HEEYET. 


n. 


The  last  time  that  we  quarrell'd,  love, 

It  was  an  April  day, 
And  through  the  gushing  of  the  rain. 
That  beat  against  the  window-pane, 

We  saw  the  sunbeams  play. 
The  linnet  never  ceased  its  song. 

Merry  it  seem'd,  and  fi'ee ; — 
"  Your  eyes  have  long  since  made  it  up. 

And  why  not  lips  ?  "  quoth  he — 
You  thought ; — I  thought ; — and  so  'twas  done- 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 


The  next  time  that  we  quarrel,  love, 

Far  distant  be  the  day. 
Of  chiding  look  or  angry  word  ! 
We'll  not  forget  the  little  bird 

That  sang  upon  the  spray. 
Amid  your  tears,  as  bright  as  rain 

When  Heaven's  fair  bow  extends. 


118  THE     GENTLE     STUDENT. 

Your  eyes  shall  mark  where  love  begins, 
And  cold  estrangement  ends ; 

You'll  tliink  ; — I'll  think ; — and  as  of  old, 
You'll  kiss  me,  and  be  Mends. 


MACKAY. 


CECILIA. 


It  haunts  me — oli !  it  liaunts  me  yet, 

That  song  of  yester-eve  ! 

It  had  a  murmur  like  regret, 

Yet  did  not  make  me  grieve ; — 

It  seem'd  to  lead  my  heart,  again. 

O'er  all  its  pleasant  years, 

A  path  without  remorse  or  pain, 

And  yet,  beneath  that  simple  strain. 

Mine  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  ! 

Methouo-ht  the  wild  notes  seem'd  to  rise, 

Loosed  fi'om  the  golden  strings. 

Like  singins:  birds  that  seek  the  skies. 

On  new-enfranchised  wings  ; — 

And,  still,  I  seem  to  hear  them  play 

Beyond  the  reach  of  sight. 

And  pour  theu*  sweet  and  soften'd  lay. 

In  dream-like  music  far  away, 

Amid  their  homes  of  light. 


120  CECILIA. 


Unlieard  before, — and  yet  it  took 

An  old  familiar  tone ; 

As  stranger-eyes  wear,  oft,  a  look 

Of  eyes  tkat  we  liave  known 

In  some  forgotten  time  and  place. 

And  liglit,  with  sudden  spell, 

Some  darken'd  thought,  some  shadowy  trace, 

Whose  silent  and  mysterious  grace 

The  heart  remembers  Avell. 

An  antique,  yet  a  novel,  tone  ! 

The  past  and  future  years, 

New  voices,  mix'd  with  voices  gone. 

Were  murmuring  in  mine  ears ; 

Fresh  streams  of  feeling  seem'd  to  rush, 

With  ancient  ones,  along. 

And  hidden  springs  of  thought  to  gush, 

Within  my  spirit's  Horeb-hush, 

Beneath  the  touch  of  song  ! 

A  song,  methinks,  is  like  a  sigh  ! — 

Both  seem  to  soar  from  earth. 

And  each  is  waken'd  but  to  die, 

Exhaling  in  its  birth ; 

Yet  both  to  mortal  hearts  belong 

By  many  nameless  sympathies ; 

And  each  is  o'er  the  other  strong, 

For  they  who  sigh  are  soothed  by  song. 

And  songs  are  paid  in  sighs  ! 


T.  K.  HEEVET. 


CECILIA.  121 


II. 


The  grace  of  chilcllioocl  clings  to  thee, 

In  thy  maturing  youth ; 
Thy  "woman  looks  are  eloquent 

With  purity  and  truth  ; 
And,  in  thy  gentle  mien,  there  is 

The  steadfastness  of  Ruth. 

There  have  been  lochs  of  richer  brown, 

And  eyes  as  calmly  bright, 
And  cheeks  that  blush'd  a  rosier  hue, 

And  brows  as  marble  white  ; 
But  never  one,  whose'  beauty  stirr'd 

The  heart  to  more  delight. 

Expression  such  as  thine  it  was, — 

As  beautiful  and  mild, — 
That,  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 

Upon  the  painter  smiled. 
Beside  his  canvas  dreaming  of 

Madonna  and  her  Child. 

Thy  mind  is  like  a  placid  stream,  • 
Outspread  beneath  the  sky, 

That  mirrors  in  its  waters  all 
The  changing  world  on  high, — 

The  sun,  the  stars,  the  wandering  cloud, 

That  slowly  saileth  by. 
16 


122  CECILIA. 


We  are  not  wholly  left  of  Heaven, 

While  sucli  remain  on  earth, 
Who  from  no  human  standard  take 

The  measure  of  their  worth, 
But  were  created  perfect  by 

The  Hand  that  gave  them  birth. 

WALTER  M.  LINDSAY. 


'^' 


THE    YOUNG    OLYMPIA. 


The  young  Olympia  ! — On  her  face  tlie  dyes 

Were  yet  warm  witli  tlie  dance's  exercise, 

Tlie  laugli  upon  lier  full  red  lij)  yet  liung, 

And,  arrow-like,  flasli'd  liglit  words  from  her  tongue. 

She  had  more  loveliness  than  beauty ;  hers 

Was  that  enchantment  which  the  heart  confers ; 

A  mouth  sweet  from  its  smiles,  a  glancing  eye. 

Which  had  o'er  all  expression  mastery : 

Laughing  its  orb,  but  the  long  dark  lash  made 

Somewhat  of  sadness  mth  its  twilight  shade. 

And  suiting  well  the  upcast  look  which  seem'd 

At  times  as  it  of  melancholy  dream'd  ; 

Her  cheek  was  as  a  rainbow,  it  so  changed. 

As  each  emotion  on  its  surface  ranged  ; 

And  every  word  had  its  comj^anion  blush, 

But  evanescent  as  the  crimson  flush 

That  tints  the  day-break ;  and  her  stej:)  was  light 

As  the  gale  passing  o'er  the  leaves  at  night ; 


124  THE     YOUXG     OLYMPIA. 

In  trutli  tliose  snow  feet  were  too  like  tlie  wind, 

Too  slisrlit  to  leave  a  sinij;le  trace  behind. 

She  lean'd  against  a  pillar,  and  one  hand 

Smootli'd  back  tlie  curls  that  Lad  escaped  the  band 

Of  wreathed  white  pearls — a  soft  and  fitting  chain 

In  bondage  such  bright  prisoners  to  retain. 

The  other  was  from  the  white  marble  known 

But  by  the  clasping  of  its  emerald  zone ; 

And  lighted  up  her  brow,  and  flash'd  her  eye, 

As  many  that  were  wandering  careless  by 

Caught  but  a  sound,  and  paused  to  hear  what  more 

Her  lip  might  utter  of  its  honey  store. 

She  had  that  sparkling  wit  which  is  like  light. 

Making  all  things  touch'd  with  its  radiance  bright ; 

And  a  sweet  voice  whose  words  would  chain  all  round 

Although  they  had  no  other  charm  than  sound. 

And  many  named  her  name,  and  each  with  praise ; 

Some  with  her  passionate  beauty  fill'd  theii'  gaze, 

Some  mark'd  her  graceful  step,  and  others  spoke 

Of  the  so  many  hearts  that  own'd  the  yoke 

Of  her  bewildering  smile ;  meantime,  her  own 

Seem'd  as  that  it  no  other  love  had  known 

Than  its  sweet  love  of  Nature,  music,  song, 

Which  as  by  right  to  woman's  world  belong. 

And  make  it  lovely  for  Love's  dwelling-place. 

Alas  !  that  he  should  leave  his  fiery  trace ! 

But  this  bright  creature's  brow  seem'd  all  too  fair, 

Too  gay,  for  Love  to  be  a  dweller  there ; 

For  Love  brings  sorrow ;  yet  you  might  descry 

A  troubled  flashing  in  that  brilliant  eye. 


THE     YOUNG     OLYMPIA.  125 

A  troubled  color  on  tliat  varying  cheek, 

A  hurry  in  the  tremulous  lip  to  speak, 

Avoidance  of  sad  topics,  as  to  shun 

Somewhat  the  spirit  dared  not  rest  upon ; 

An  unquiet  feverishness,  a  change  of  place, 

A  pretty  pettishness,  if  on  her  face 

A  look  dwelt  as  in  scrutiny  to  seek 

"What  hidden  meanings  from  its  change  might  break. 

MISS   LANDON. 


II. 


Ah  !  cruel-hearted  maiden  !  provoking  pretty  one ! 

You  little  know,  (like  "  Diamond,")  the  mischief  you  have  done  ! 

How  many  hearts  you've  broken,  is  more  than  I  can  tell. 

But  that  you've  played  the  deuce  with  one,  alas  !  is  known  too 

well. 
To  every  homage  Love  can  pay,  insensible  you  seem — 
How  can  the  dark-eyed  one  "  keep  dark  "  on  such  a  tender  theme  ? 
Why  not  consent  humanely  and  graciously  to  spare 
(To  ease  the  poor  subscriber's  mind)  a  ringlet  of  her  hair  ? 

I've  many  treasures  of  the  sort — aye,  something  like  a  score, 
(As  near  as  I  can  reckon — perhaps  there  may  be  more.) 
And  some  are  very  beautiful — there's  one  as  black  as  ink. 
Which  I  have  kept  on  hand  at  least  a  dozen  years,  I  think. 
There's  one  as  pale  as  amber,  and  one  as  white  as  snow, 
And  one  that's  soft  and  flaxen — another  more  like  tow. 


126  THE     YOUNG    OLYMPIA. 

And  one  as  golden  as  tlie  crown  upon  Victoria's  liead ; 
Another  auburn — or  perchance,  the  least  inclined  to  red. 
And  here  is  one — a  splendid  one — this  curl  of  wavy  brown ! 
'Tis  from  a  head  that  niioht  have  turn'd  the  heads  of  half  the 
to\m. 

And  thou  may'st  have  them  all  for  one  of  those  dark  locks  of 

thine, 

That  over  snowy  neck  and  brow  so  lovingly  entwine. 

*  *  «  «  *  -X-  * 

II.  n.  CKOWXELL. 


.r^  "^ 


^ 


THE    LADY    ADELINE. 

SuDDEif  a  flood  of  lustre  playVl 

Over  a  lofty  balustrade, 

Music  and  perfume  swept  the  air 

Messengers  sweet  for  tlie  spring  to  prepare  ; 

And  like  a  sunny  vision  sent 

For  worship  and  astonishment, 

Aside  a  radiant  ladye  flung 

The  veil  that  o'er  her  beauty  hung. 

With  stately  grace  to  those  below, 

She  bent  her  gem  encircled  brow. 

And  bade  them  welcome  in  the  name 

Of  her  they  saved,  the  castle's  dame, 

Who  had  not  let  another  pay 

Thanks,  greeting  to  their  brave  an-ay — 

But  she  had  vow'd  the  battle  night 

To  fasting,  prayer,  and  holy  rite. 

On  the  air  the  last  tones  of  the  music  die, 
The  odor  passes  away  like  a  sigh. 


128  THE     LADY     ADELINE. 

The  torches  flash  a.  parting  gleam, 

And  she  vanishes  as  she  came,  like  a  dream. 

But  many  an  eye  dwelt  on  the  shade, 

Till  fancy  again  her  form  disj)lay'd, 

And  still  again  seem'd  many  an  ear 

The  softness  of  her  voice  to  hear, 

And  many  a  heart  had  a  vision  that  night 

AVhich  future  years  never  banish'd  quite. 

And  sio'n  and  sound  of  festival 

Ai'e  ringing  through  that  castle  hall ; 

Lamps  like  faery  planets  shine 

O'er  massive  cups  of  the  genial  wine, 

And  shed  a  ray  more  soft;  and  fair 

Than  the  broad  red  gleam  of  the  torches'  glare ; 

And  flitting  like  a  ]*ainbow,  inlays 

In  beautiful  and  changing  rays. 

When  fi'om  the  pictured  windows  fall 

The  color'd  shadows  o'er  the  hall ; 

As  every  pane  some  bright  hue  lent 

To  vary  the  lighted  element. 

The  ladye  of  the  festive  board 

"VYas  ward  to  the  castle's  absent  lord ; 

The  Ladye  Adeline — the  same 

Bright  vision  that  with  theii'  greeting  came. 

On  the  knot  of  her  -s^Teathed  hair  was  set 

A  blood-red  niby  coronet : 

But  anions;  the  midniofht  cloud  of  curls 

That  hung  o'er  her  l)row,  were  Eastern  pearls, 


THE     LADY    ADELINE.  129 

As  if  to  tell  witli  wealth  of  snow 

How  white  her  forehead  could  look  below. 

Around  her  floated  a  veil  of  white, 

Like  the  silvery  rack  round  the  star  of  twilight. 

And  down  to  the  ground  her  mantle's  fold 

Spread  its  length  of  purple  and  gold ; 

And  sparkling  gems  were  around  her  aiTQ, 

That  shone  like  marble,  only  w^arm, 

With  the  blue  veins'  wanderino;  tide. 

And  the  hand  with  its  crimson  blush  inside. 

A  zone  of  precious  stones  embraced 

The  graceful  cucle  of  her  waist, 

Sparkling  as  if  they  were  proud 

Of  the  clasp  to  them  allow'd. 

But  yet  there  was  'mid  this  excess 

Of  soft  and  dazzling  loveliness, 

A  something  in  the  eye  and  hand. 

And  forehead,  speaking  of  command : 

An  eye  whose  dark  flash  seem'd  allied 

To  even  more  than  beauty's  pride ; — 

A  hand  as  only  used  to  wave 

Its  sign  to  worshipper  and  slave ; — 

A  forehead — l)ut  that  was  too  fair 

To  read  of  aught  save  beauty  there. 

And  Kaymond  had  the  place  of  pride, 

The  place  so  envied,  by  her  side — 

The  victor's  seat ;  and  overhead 

The  banner  he  had  won  was  spread. 

His  health  was  pledged  ! — he  only  heard 

The  murmur  of  one  silver  word ; 
17 


130  THE    LADY    ADELINE. 

The  pageant  seein'd  to  facie  away, 
Vanisli'd  tlie  board  and  glad  aiTay, 
The  gorgeous  had  around  grew  dim, 
There  shone  one  only  light  for  him, 
That  radiant  fonn  whose  brisrhtness  fell 

o 

In  power  upon  him  like  a  spell, 

Laid  in  its  strength  by  Love  to  reign 

Deyj)otic  over  heart  and  braiu. 

Silent  he  stood  amid  the  mirth. 

Oh,  love  is  timid  in  its  birth  ! 

"Watching  her  lightest  look  or  stir 

As  he  but  look'd  and  breathed  with  her. 

Gay  words  were  passing,  but  he  leant 

In  silence,  yet  one  quick  glance  sent — 

His  secret  is  no  more  his  own — 

When  has  a  woman  her  power  not  known  ? 


ERINNA. 

Theee  is  an  antique  gem,  on  wMcli  lier  brow 

Ketains  its  graven  l3eauty  even  now. 

Her  liaii'  is  braded,  but  one  curl  behind 

Floats  as  enamor'd  of  tlie  summer  wind  ; 

Tlie  rest  is  simple.     Is  slie  not  too  fair 

Even  to  tLink  of  maiden's  sweetest  care  ? 

The  mouth  and  brow  are  contrasts.     One  so  fraught 

With  pride,  the  melancholy  pride  of  thought 

Conscious  of  power,  and  yet  forced  to  know 

How  little  way  such  power  as  that  can  go ; 

Kegretting,  while  too  proud  of  the  fine  mind,    . 

Which  raises  but  to  part  it  from  its  kind : 

But  the  sweet  mouth  had  nothing  of  all  this ; 

It  was  a  mouth  the  rose  had  lean'd  to  kiss. 

For  her  young  sister,  telling,  now  though  mute, 

How  soft  an  echo  it  was  to  the  lute. 

The  one  spoke  genius,  in  its  high  revealing ; 

The  other  smiled  a  woman's  gentle  feeling. 


132  ERINNA. 

It  was  a  lovely  face  :  the  Greek  outline 
FloA\dng,  yet  delicate  and  feminine  ; 
The  glorious  lightning  of  the  kindled  eye, 
Kaised,  as  it  communed  with  its  native  sky, 
A  lovely  face,  the  spirit's  fitting  shrine  ; 
The  one  almost,  the  other  quite,  divine. 


MISS    LAiTDON. 


AURORA. 


She  did  steer 
Her  gentle  course  along  life's  dangerous  sea, 
For  sixteen  pleasant  summers  quietly. 

Her  shape  was  delicate,  her  motion  fi'ee 

As  his,  that  charter'd  libertine,  the  air. 
Or  Dian's,  when  upon  the  mountains  she 

Folio w'd  the  fawn  :  her  bosom  full  and  fair  ; 
It  seem'd  as  Love  itself  might  thither  flee 

For  shelter  when  his  brow  was  parch'd  with  care ; 
And  her  white  arm,  like  marble  turn'd  by  gi'ace, 
Was  of  good  length  and  in  its  j^roper  place. 

-»  •:«•  *  -;>  -X-  -::• 

And  thou,  poor  Spanish  maid,  ah  !  what  hadst  thou 
Done  to  the  archer  blind,  that  he  should  dart 

His  cruel  shafts,  till  thou  wast  forced  to  bow 
In  bitter  anguish,  aye,  endure  the  smart 

The  more  because  thou  wor'st  a  smiling  brow 
While  the  dark  arrow  canker'd  at  thy  heart  ? 


134  AURORA. 

Yet  jeer  her  not :  if  'twere  a  folly,  slie 
Ilatli  paid  (how  fii-mly  jjaid)  Love's  penalty  : 

Oft  would  she  sit  and  look  upon  the  sky, 
When  rich  clouds  in  the  golden  sunset  lay 

Basking,  and  love  to  hear  the  soft  winds  sigh 
That  come  like  music  at  the  close  of  day 

Trembling  among  the  orange  blooms,  and  die 
As  'twere  from  every  sweetness.     She  was  gay, 

Meekly  and  calmly  gay,  and  then  her  gaze 

Was  brighter  than  belongs  to  dying  days ; 

And  on  her  young  thin  cheek  a  vi\dd  flush, 
A  clear  transparent  color,  sate  awhile  : 

'Twas  like,  a  bard  would  say,  the  morning's  blush  ; 
And  round  her  mouth  there  play'd  a  gentle  smile, 

Which  though  at  first  it  might  your  terrors  hush, 
It  could  not,  though  it  strove,  at  last  beguile ; 

And  her  hand  shook,  and  then  rose  the  blue  vein 

Branching  about  in  all  its  windings  plain. 

BAEKY    COENWALL. 


n. 


Perhaps  the  lady  of  my  love  is  now 
Looking  upon  the  skies.     A  single  star 
Is  risins:  in  the  East,  and  from  afar 
Sheds  a  most  tremulous  lustre :  Silent  Night 
Doth  wear  it  like  a  jewel  on  her  brow : 
But  see,  it  motions,  with  its  lovely  light, 


AURORA.  235 

Onwards  and  onwards  througli  those  depths  of  blue, 
To  its  appointed  course  steadfast  and  true. 
So,  dearest,  would  I  fain  be  unto  tliee. 
Steadfast  for  ever,— like  yon  planet  fair ; 
And  yet  more  like  art  tJioic  a  jewel  rare. 
Oh  !  brighter  than  the  brightest  star,  to  nie. 
Come  hither,  my  young  love ;  and  I  will  wear 
Thy  beauty  on  my  breast  delightedly. 

BAEET    COEITO^ALL. 


in. 


Sue  walks  in  beauty  like  the  nio-ht 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  briirht 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  lidit 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face — 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling  place. 


18G  AURORA. 

And  on  tliat  clieek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
Tlie  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow. 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

BTEON. 


^  n 


THE    NUN. 


I. 


Home  !  liome  ! — I  would  go  liome  ! — nietliinks  I  liear 

The  long-liush'd  voices  singing  far  away ; 

The  eyes  that  made  earth's  very  deserts  dear 

Shed  o'er  my  night  a  portion  of  their  day  ; 

The  lost  are  found, — the  vanish'd  are  return'd, — 

And  they  were  angels  whom  I  wildly  mom-n'd ! 

How  has  my  soul  sat  down  amid  its  glooms, 

A  wounded  captive,  counting  o'er  its  scars, — 

And  linger'd,  weeping,  'mid  the  shade  of  tombs. 

For  those  ^v'hose  dwelling  Avas  the  light  of  stars  ! — 

How  have  I  call'd  to  earth — and  miss'd  replies 

That  should  have  reach'd  me  from  the  far,  "bright  skies  ! 

Till,  heavy  with  its  grief,  my  spirit  slept, 
And  had  a  dream,  like  his  of  Bethel,  given — 
A  ladder,  with  its  path  by  angels  kept, 

And  pointing  upward  to  "  the  gate  of  heaven  " ; 

18 


laS  THE     NUX. 

On  wliose  briglit  summit  ^^sions  were  reveal'd, 
That  liusli'd  its  tlirobbings  and  its  acliings  heal'd. 


Wliat  portion  liave  I,  on  tliis  low,  dim  earth, 

Where  grief  is  nourish'd  by  the  hand  of  joy, 

Where  love  is  as  a  fount  of  tears, — and  mirth 

Grows  pale  to  find  her  echo  is  a  sigh, — 

Where  time  -wrecks  something  with  its  smoothest  waves, 

And  every  year  sets  up  memorial-graves ! 

Where  they  who  smile  must  weep  because  they  smiled — 
Where  partings  make  it  mournful  that  we  meet, 
And  memory  weaves  her  shrouds  for  some  lost  child 
Of  hope,  laid  daily  at  her  silent  feet ! — 
My  country  lies  beneath  a  deathless  air, 
And  all  that  leaves  me  here  awaits  me  there. 

I  would  go  home  ! — ye  bright  and  staiTy  bands 
That  shine  on  heaven's  pathway  of  the  skies, — ■ 
Like  the  Aving'd  Cherubim  whose  flaming  brands 
Kept  watch  along  the  walls  of  Paradise, — 
Oh  !  for  a  pinion  swifter  than  your  flight. 
To  bear  me  to  the  land  beyond  your  light ! 

Home  would  I  go, — my  hopes  have  gone  before, — 
There  where  my  treasure  is  my  heart  would  be ! 
The  voices  that  the  earth  shall  hear  no  more 
Are  calling,  with  their  spirit-tones,  for  me  : — 
"  Immortal  longings  "  stir  within  my  breast ; 
Oh  !  let  me  "  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest  "  ! 

T.  K.  HEEVEY. 


THE    NUN.  139 


11. 


Befoee  thee  is  tlie  open  book 

Of  God's  revealed  word ; 
Upon  it  rests  thy  clasjDed  hands. 

No  utterance  has  stirrVI 
The  silent  breathing  of  thy  lij^s, 

And  yet  thy  prayer  is  heard. 

Thou  prayest  that  thy  life  may  be 

So  order'd,  that  its  end 
Will  find  thy  soul  at  peace  with  Heaven. 

No  earthly  wishes  blend 
"With  holier  thoughts.     Untainted,  all 

Thy  prayers  to  God  ascend. 

As  Mary  turn'd  from  all  the  world, 

And  suffer'd  not  its  care 
To  come  between  her  path  and  heaven, — 

And  could  her  beauty  wear 
Unconscious  as  the  opening  flower ; — 
So  thou,  than  whom  more  fair 

Are  none  in  all  this  glorious  earth. 

Canst  see  each  troubled  soul 
Around  thee,  strew  its  path  with  thorns  ;— 

And,  with  a  sw^eet  control 
Of  all  thyself,  await  in  peace 

Until  the  golden  bowl 


140  THE    XUN. 


Is  broken  at  tlie  fount  of  life, — 

Until  tlie  silver  cord 
Is  loosed  between  thee  and  tlie  world. 

Tliou  knowest  that  thy  Lord, 
To  whom  such  innocence  is  given, 

Will  make  thee  thy  reward. 


WALTER   M.  LINDSAY. 


ELEANOPiE. 

Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not, 

Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  Englisli  air, 
For  there  is  nothing  here. 
Which  from  the  outward  to  the  inward  brought, 
Moukled  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off  from  human  neighborhood, 

Thou  wast  born  on  a  summer  morn, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedarwood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann  d 
With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 
But  thou  wast  nursed  in  some  delicious  land 

Of  lavish  lights  and  floating  shades  : 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought. 
The  oriental  fairy  brought, 

At  the  moment  of  thy  biiih. 
From  old  wellheads  of  haunted  rills. 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny  shore. 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore. 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleiinore. 


142  ELEAXORE. 


How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 

How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  liarmony 
Of  tliy  swaulike  stateliness, 
Eleanore  ? 

The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore  ? 

Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 

Every  lineament  divine, 
Eleanore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee  ?     For  in  thee 

Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 

From  one  censer,  in  one  shrine, 

Thous-ht  and  motion  minsfle, 
Min2:le  ever.     Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  though 
They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Dra^vn  from  each  other  mellow-deep. 

Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore  ? 

I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore ; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold. 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 


ELEiXORE.  143 


I  muse  as  in  a  trance,  wliene'er 
The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 

Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 
So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 

To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 

Gazino;  on  thee  for  evermore, 

O  7 

Serene,  imj)erial  Eleanore ! 


ALFRED    TEXNTSON. 


XL 


Those  cheeks  are  beautiful,  are  bright 

As  the  red  rose  with  dewdrops  graced ; 
And  faultless  is  the  lovely  light 

Of  those  dear  eyes,  that,  on  me  placed, 
Pierce  to  my  very  heart,  and  fill 

My  soul  with  love's  consuming  fires. 
While  passion  burns  and  reigns  at  will ; 

So  deep  the  love  that  fair  inspires  ! 

But  joy  upon  her  beauteous  foim 

Attends,  her  hues  so  bright  to  shed 
O'er  those  red  lips,  before  whose  waiTii 

And  beaming  smile  all  care  is  fled. 
She  is  to  me  all  light  and  joy, 

I  faint,  I  die,  before  her  frown  ; 
Even  Venus,  lived  she  yet  on  earth, 

A  fairer  goddess  here  must  own. 


144  ELEAXORE. 


"Wliile  many  moui'n  the  vanisli'd  liglit 
Of  summer,  and  the  sweet  sun's  face, 

I  mourn  that  these,  however  bright. 
No  anoTiish  from  the   soul  can  chase 

o 

By  love  inflicted  :  all  around, 

Nor  song  of  birds,  nor  ladies'  bloom, 

Nor  flowers  upspringing  from  the  ground, 
Can  chase  or  cheer  the  spirit's  gloom. 


WOLFKAM  OF  ESCHEKBUCH. 
{Minnesinger.) 


THE    MAID    OF    LIS  MORE. 
I. 

"Why  cloth  tlie  maiden  turn  away 

From  voice  so  sweet,  and  words  so  dear  ? 
Why  doth  the  maiden  turn  away, 
•  "When  love  and  flattery  woo  her  ear  ? 
And  rarely  that  enchanted  twain. 
Whisper  in  woman's  ear  in  vain. 

Why  doth  the  maiden  leave  the  hall  ? 

No  face  is  fair  as  hers  is  fair. 
No  step  has  such  a  fauy  fall, 

No  azure  eyes  like  hers  are  there. 

The  maiden  seeks  her  lonely  bower, 

Although  her  father's  guests  are  met ; 
She  knows  it  is  the  midnight  hour. 

She  knows  the  first  pale  star  is  set. 
And  now  the  silver  moon-beams  wake 
The  spirits  of  the  haunted  Lake. 

The  waves  take  rainbow  hues,  and  now 

The  shining  train  are  gliding  by, 
Their  chieftain  lifts  his  gloi'ious  brow, 
The  maiden  meets  his  lingering  eye. 


14()  THE     MAID     OF    LISMORE. 

The  glittering  sliapes  melt  into  night ; 

Another  look,  tlieir  chief  is  gone, 
And  cliill  and  gray  comes  morning's  light. 
And  clear  and  cold  the  Lake  flows  on ; 
Close,  close  the  casement,  not  for  sleep, 
Over  such  visions  eyes  but  weep. 

How  many  share  such  destiny. 

How  many,  lured  by  fancy's  beam, 
Ask  the  impossible  to  be. 

And  pine,  the  victims  of  a  dream  ! 

MISS    LANDON. 


II. 


"  A  WEAEY  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine ! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine  ! 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — • 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

My  love  ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"  This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow — 
The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 
Ere  wc  two  meet  airain." 


THE    MAID    OF    LISMORE.  147 

He  turn'd  his  charger  as  lie  spake, 

Uj)on  the  river  shore  ; 
He  srave  his  bridle  reins  a  shake, 


Said,  "  Adieu  for  evermore, 
My  love ! 
And  adieu  for  evermore." 


SIE    WALTEE    SCOTT. 


III. 

I  GIVE  thee  treasures  hour  by  hour. 
That  old-time  princes  ask'd  in  vain. 
And  pined  for  in  their  useless  power 
Or  died  of  passion's  eager  pain. 

I  give  thee  love  as  God  gives  light,    . 
Aside  from  merit  or  from  prayer, 
Kejoicing  in  its  own  delight. 
And  fi-eer  than  the  lavish  air. 

I  give  thee  prayers,  like  jewels  strung 
On  golden  threads  of  hope  and  fear ; 
And  tenderer  thoughts  than  ever  rung 
In  a  sad  angel's  pitying  tear. 

As  earth  pours  freely  to  the  sea 
Her  thousand  streams  of  wealth  untold. 
So  flows  my  silent  life  to  thee. 
Glad  that  its  very  sands  are  gold. 


148  THE     MAID     OF     LISMORE. 

What  care  I  for  thy  carelessness  ? 
I  give  from  depths  that  ovei'flow, 
Regardless  that  their  power  to  bless 
Thy  spirit  cannot  sound  or  know. 

Far  lingering  on  the  distant  dawn 
My  triumj)h  shines,  more  sweet  than  late ; 
When  from  these  mortal  mists  withdrawn, 
Thy  heart  shall  know  me — I  can  wait. 


EOSE   TEERY. 


^(P7/y>^UL 


x7 


THE    GONDOLA. 


Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  tlie  white  ; 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk ; 
Nor  mnks  the  gold-fin  in  the  porphyiy  font ; 
The  fire-fly  wakens ;  waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milk-white  peacock  like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  nnto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake ; 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 

ALFEED   TENNYSON. 


150  THE     GOXDOLA. 


II. 


The  Gondola  glides 

Like  a  sj)irit  of  nigM, 
O'er  the  slumbering  tides, 

111  tlie  calm  moonlio-lit : — 
The  star  of  the  North 

Shows  her  golden  eye, 
But  a  brighter  looks  forth 

From  yon  lattice  on  high  ! 

Her  taper  is  out. 

And  the  silver  beam 
Floats  the  maiden  about, 

Like  a  beautiful  dream  ! 
And  the  beat  of  her  heai-t 

Makes  her  tremble  all  o'er, 
And  she  lists  with  a  start 

To  the  dash  of  the  oar. 


But  the  moments  are  past 

And  her  fears  are  at  rest. 
And  her  lover  at  last 

Holds  her  clasped  to  his  breast ; 
And  the  planet  above. 

And  the  quiet  blue  sea, 
Are  pledged  to  his  love 

And  his  constancy. 


TUE     GONDOLA.  151 

Her  cheek  is  reclined 

On  tlie  liome  of  liis  breast, 
And  liis  fingers  are  t"\vined 

'Mid  lier  ringlets  whicli  rest 
In  many  a  fold 

O'er  Ms  arm,  that  is  placed 
Round  the  cincture  of  gold 

Which  encircles  her  waist. 

He  looks  on  the  stars, 

Which  are  gemming  the  blue. 
And  devoutly  he  swears 

He  will  ever  be  true ; 
Then  bends  him  to  hear 

The  lov/  sound  of  her  sigh, 
And  kiss  the  fond  tear 

From  her  beautiful  eye. 

And  he  watches  its  flashes, 

Which  brightly  reveal 
What  the  long  fringing  lashes 

Would  vainly  conceal ; 
And  reads — while  he  kneels — 

All  his  ardor  to  speak — 
Her  reply,  as  it  steals 

In  a  blush  o'er  her  cheek  ! 

'Till,  now  by  the  prayers 

Which  so  softly  reprove, 
On  his  bosom,  in  tears, 

She  half  murmurs  her  love  ; 


152  THE     GONDOLA. 

And  tlie  stifled  confession 
.  Enraptm'cd  lie  sips, 
'Mid  tlie  breathings  of  passion, 
In  dew  fi'om  lier  lips  ! 


m. 

Thou  liast  beauty  briglit  and  fair, 
Manner  noble,  aspect  fi'ee, 

Eyes  that  are  untouclied  by  care : 
What  then  do  we  ask  from  thee  ? 

Thou  hast  reason  quick  and  strong. 
Wit  that  envious  men  admke. 

And  a  voice  itself  a  song  ! 

What  then  can  we  still  desire  ? 

Something  thou  dost  want,  O  queen  ! 

(As  the  gold  doth  ask  alloy,) 
Tears — amid  thy  laughter  seen. 

Pity  mingling  mth  thy  joy. 


T.  K.  UERVEY, 


BAEET    COENTVALL. 


% 


THE    PLEASING    THOUGHT. 


Ah  !  little  do  tliose  features  wear 
The  shade  of  grief,  the  soil  of  care  ; 
The  hair  is  parted  o'er  a  brow 
Open  and  white  as  mountain  snow, 
And  thence  descends  in  many  a  ring, 
With  sun  and  summer  glistening. 
Yet  something  on  that  brow  has  wrought 
A  moment's  cast  of  passing  thought : 
Musing  of  gentle  dreams,  like  those 
Which  tint  the  slumbers  of  the  rose  : 
Not  love, — love  is  not  yet  with  thee — 
But  just  a  glimpse  what  love  may  be  : 
A  memory  of  some  last  night's  sigh. 
When  flitting  blush  and  drooping  eye 
Answered  some  youthful  cavalier, 
Whose  words  sank  pleasant  on  thine  ear, 
To  stir,  but  not  to  fill  the  heart ; — 
Dreaming  of  such,  fair  girl,  thou  art. 
20 


154  THE  PLEASING  THOUGHT. 

Thou  blessed  season  of  our  sj)riug, 

When  hopes  are  angels  on  the  wing ; 

Bound  upwards  to  theu'  heavenly  shore, 

Alas  !  to  visit  earth  no  more, 

Then  step  and  laugh  alike  are  light, 

When,  like  a  summer  morning  bright, 

Our  spirits  in  their  mirth  are  such, 

As  turn  to  gold  whate'er  they  touch. 

The  past !  'tis  nothing, — childhood's  day 

Has  rolled  too  recently  away. 

For  youth  to  shed  those  mournful  tears 

That  fill  the  eye  in  older  years. 

When  care  looks  back  on  that  bright  leaf. 

Of  ready  smiles  and  short-lived  grief. 

The  future  !  'tis  the  promised  land, 

To  which  Hope  points  wdth  prophet  hand. 

Telling  us  fairy  tales  of  flowers 

That  only  change  for  fruit — and  ours. 

Thouo'h  false,  thousrh  fleeting^,  and  thous^h  vain. 

Thou  blessed  time  I  say  again. 

Glad  being,  Avith  thy  downcast  eyes, 
And  visionary  look  that  lies 
Beneath  their  shadow,  thou  shalt  share 
A  world,  where  all  my  treasures  are, — 
My  lute's  sweet  empire,  filled  with  all 
That  will  obey  my  spirit's  call ; 
A  world  lit  up  by  fancy's  sun  ! 
Ah  !  little  like  our  actual  one. 

MISS   LAJJDON. 


THE    WILD-FLOWER 


I. 


Lo  !  walking  fortli  into  the  sunny  air, 

Her  face  yet  sliaded  by  the  pensiveness 

Breathed  o'er  it  from  her  holy  orisons, 

She  pours  a  blessing  from  her  dewy  eyes 

O'er  that  low  roof,  and  then  the  large  blue  orbs 

Salute  serenely  the  high  arch  of  heaven. 

On — on  she  shines  away  into  the  woods  ! 

And  all  the  birds  burst  out  in  ecstasy 

As  she  hath  reappear'd.     And  now  she  stands 

In  a  long  glade  beside  the  Fames'  well — 

So  named  she  in  delight  a  tiny  spring 

In  the  rich  mosses,  fringed  "svith  flowery  dyes, 

O'erhung  by  tiny  trees,  that  tinier  still 

Seem'd  through  that  mirror,  in  whose  light  she  loved 

Each  morn  to  reinstate  with  sim])le  liraids, 

Into  its  silken  snood  her  ^^rgin  hair, 

Unconsciously  admired,  by  her  own  soul 


156  THE     WILD-FLOWER. 

Made  liappy — such  is  nature's  law  benign — 

Even  by  the  beauty  of  her  ow^n  innocence. 

Of  gentle  blood  was  she  ;  but  tide  of  time, 

Age  after  age,  bore  onwards  to  decay 

The  fortunes  of  her  fathers,  and  at  last 

The  memory  of  the  once  illustrious  dead 

Forgotten  quite,  and  to  all  common  ears 

The  name  they  were  so  proud  of  most  obscm^e 

And  meaningless,  among  the  forest  woods. 

The  poor  descendant  of  that  house  was  now, 

But  for  the  delicate  wild-flower,  blooming  there. 

Last  of  his  race,  a  lowly  Forester  ! 

Yet  never  Lady  in  her  jewell'd  pride, 

As  she  aj)pear'd  upon  her  bridal  morn, 

Pictured  by  limner,  who  had  lived  in  love 

With  rarest  beauty  all  his  life,  in  halls 

Of  nobles,  and  the  palaces  of  kings. 

E'er  look'd  more  lovely  through  time's  tints  divine, 

Than  she  who  stood  now  by  the  Fairies'  w^ell 

Imagination's  phantom,  lily-fair. 

In  pure  simplicity  of  himiblest  life. 


PEOFESSOE  WILSON. 


XL 


On  fairest  of  the  rural  maids ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades : 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
"Were  all  that  met  thine  infant  eye. 


THE    WILD    FLOWER.  15^ 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child. 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  j)lace 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpress'd. 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace,  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes  is  there. 

■VraLLIAM    C     BETANT. 


III. 

She  is  one  in  whom  I  find 

All  things  fair  and  bright  combined ; 

When  her  beauteous  form  I  see, 

Kings  themselves  might  envy  me ; 

Joy  with  joy  is  gilded  o'er. 

Till  the  heart  can  hold  no  more. 


158  THE     WILD     FLOWER. 


She  is  bright  as  morning  sun, 


She.  my  fairest,  loveliest  one ; 
For  the  honor  of  the  fair, 
I  will  sing  her  l^eauty  rare, 

Every  thing  I'll  do  and  be 

So  my  lady  solace  me. 

STEINMAK,  {Minnesinger.) 


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ISABELLA. 

Scene. — A  J2ooni,  with  a  Banquet. 

Isabella. 
Time  lags,  and  slights  his  duty.     I  remember 
The  days  when  he  would  fly.     How  sweet  they  were  ! 
Then  I  rebuked  his  speed,  and  now — and  now — 
I  drench  his  wing  with  tears.     How  heavily 
The  minutes  pass  !     Can  he  avoid  me  ?     No. 
1  hear  a  step  come  sounding  through  the  hall. 
It  is  the  murderer  Sforza.     Now,  my  heart ! 
Else  up  in  thy  full  strength,  and  do  the  act 
Of  justice  bravely.     So,  he's  here. 

{Enter  Sfoeza.) 

Sfoeza. 
My  love ! 

O  my  delight,  my  Deity !     I  am  come 

To  thank  you  for  being  gracious.     I  am  late  % 

Isabella. 

No  !  in  the  best  of  times,  sir. 


160  isabella, 

Sfoeza. 
Yet  you  look 

Not  gay,  my  Isabella.     Nouglit  lias  happened 

To  shake  your  promise  ? 

Isabella. 
Be  assured  of  that. 

Doubt  not,  nor  chide,  my  lord.     My  heart  you  know 
Falls  faint  at  times.     To-night  I'll  do  my  best 
To  entertain  you  as  you  merit. 

Sfoeza. 
Better  I  ho2:>e,  my  Isabella. 

Isabella. 
Your  grace 

May  challenge  any  thing ;  from  me  the  most. 

Although  a  widow,  not  divested  quite 

Of  all  her  sorrows,  I  am  here  to  smile 

Like  tearful  April  on  you  :  but  you'll  grow 

To  vanity,  sir,  unless  some  stop  be  put 

To  your  amorous  conquests.     I  must  do't. 

Sfoeza. 
You  shall. 

You  shall,  my  Isabella. 

Isabella. 
Sir,  I  will. 

You  shall  be  wholly  mine,  till  death  shall  part  us. 

I  Imve  been  full  of  miseries  ;  they  have  swelled 

My  heart  to  bursting.     You  shall  soothe  me. 


ISABELLA.  161 

SrOKZA. 

How? 

Isabella. 
We'll  find  a  way  :  nay,  not  so  free,  my  lord  ; 
I  must  be  won  witli  words,  (tliongli  hollow)  smiles, 
And  vows,  (altliough  you  mean  tliem  not)  kind  looks 
And  excellent  flattery.     Come,  my  lord,  wliat  say  you  ? 
I'm  all  impatience. 

SroEZA. 
Ok !  wkat  can  I  say  ? 

Tkou  art  so  lovely,  that  all  words  must  fail. 
Tkey  of  wkom  poets  sing  men  say  were  shadows ; 
Thus  will  tkey  swear  of  tkee. 

Isabella. 
Alas !  my  lord. 

I  kave  no  laureate  kere  to  lie  in  rkyme  ; 
So  must  remain  unsung. 

Sfoeza. 

But  I  will  kave 

Your  name  recorded  in  tke  sweetest  verse  ; 
Like  lier,  wko,  in  old  inunitable  tales. 
Was  pictured  gatkering  flowers  in  Sicily, 
And  raised  to  Pluto's  tkrone  ;  metkinks  ske  was 
A  beautiful  propkecy  of  tkee  ;  and  tkere 
Mountains  skall  rise,  and  grassy  valleys  lie 
Asleep  i'  tke  sun,  and  l)lue  Sicilian  streams 
Skall  wander,  and  green  woods  (just  toucked  witk  ligkt) 
Skall  yield  tkeir  forekeads  to  some  western  wind, 
21 


162  ISABELLA. 

And  bend  to  briglit  Apollo  as  lie  comes 
Smiling  from. out  tlie  east.     What  more  ?     WLy,  you 
Shall  kneel  and  pluck  the  flowers,  and  look  aside, 
Hearkening  for  me  ;  and — I  will  be  there,  (a  god,) 
Rushing  towards  thee,  my  sweet  Proserpina. 


An  ugly  story  ! 
How,  sweet  ? 


Isabella. 


Sfoeza. 


Isabella. 


You  would  take  me 

To — Hell  then  ?  but  forgive  me,  I  am  ill ; 
Distract  at  times  ;  we'll  now  forget  it  all. 
Come,  you  will  taste  my  poor  repast  ? 

Sfoeza. 
Oh,  sm*ely. 

Isabella. 
We'll  be  alone. 

Sfoeza. 
'Tis  better.    Yet  I  have  {Tlmj  feast. 

No  relish  for  common  viands.     Shall  I  drink 
To  thee,  my  queen  \ 

Isabella. 
To  me,  sir.     This  (look  on't) 
Is  a  curious  wine ;  and  like  those  precious  drops 
Sought  by  philosophers,  (the  life  elixir,) 
Will  make  you  immortal. 


isabella.  1g3 

Sfoeza. 
Give  it  me,  my  love. 
May  you  ne'er  know  an  Lour  of  sorrow. 

Isabella. 
Ha! 

Stay,  stay ;  soft,  put  it  down. 

Sfoeza. 
Why,  liow  is  tliis  ? 

Isabella. 
Would — would  you  drink  without  me  ?    Shame  upon  you. 
Look  at  this  fruit ;  a  sea- worn  captain,  one 
Who  had  sailed  all  'round  the  world,  brought  it  for  me 
From  the  Indian  isles  ;  the  natives  there,  men  say, 
Worship  it.     This — 

Sfoeza. 
It  has  a  luscious  taste. 
My  nephew,  when  he  lived,  loved  such  a  fruit. 

Isabella. 

Thanks,  spirits  of  vengeance  !  [aside. 

Now  you  shall  taste  the  immortal  wine,  my  lord. 
And  drink  a  health  to  Cupid. 

Sfoeza. 
Cupid,  then, 

He  was  a  cunning  god  ;  he  dimmed  men's  eyes, 

'Tis  prettily  said  i'  the  fable.     But  ony  eyes 

(Yet  how  I  love  !)  are  clear  as  though  I  were 

A  stoic.     Ah  ! 


x64  isabella. 

Isabella. 
What  ails  my  lord  ? 

SroEZA. 
Tlie  wine  is  cold. 

Isabella. 
You'll  find  it  warmer,  shortly. 
It  is  its  nature,  as  I'm  told,  to  lieat 
The  heart.     My  lord,  I  read  but  yesterday 
Of  an  old  man,  a  Grecian  poet,  who 
Devoted  all  his  life  to  wine,  and  died 
O'  the  grape.     Methinks  'twas  just. 

SroEZA. 
'Twas  so.     This  wine 

Isabella. 
And  stories  have  been  told  of  men  whose  lives 
"Were  infamous,  and  so  their  end.     I  mean 
That  the  red  murderer  has  himself  been  murdered 
The  traitor  struck  with  treason.     He  who  let 
The  orphan  perish,  came  himself  to  want ; 
Thufe  justice  and  great  God  have  ordered  it ! 
So  that  the  scene  of  evil  has  been  turned 
Against  the  actor ;  pain  paid  back  with  pain ; 
And ^-)oison  given  for  j^oison. 

Sfoeza. 
O  my  heart  ! 

Isabella. 

Is  the  wine  still  so  cold,  sir  ? 


isabella.  165 

Sfoeza. 
I  am  burning, 

Some  water  !    I  bm-n  with,  tliirst.     Oli !  wliat  is  this  ? 

Isabella. 

You're  pale  ;  I'll  call  for  help.     Here ! 

[^Servants  enter. 

Isabella. 

Bind  tliat  man 
To  his  seat. 


Sfoeza. 


Ah !  traitress. 


Isabella. 
Leave  us  now,  alone.  [^Servants  exeunt. 

My  lord !  I'll  not  deceive  you ;  you  have  di'ank 
Your  last  draught  in  this  world. 

Sfoeza. 
My  heart,  my  heart ! 
Traitress !     I  faint faint ah  ! 

Isabella. 
I  would  have  done 
Some  act  of  justice  in  a  milder  shape; 
But  it  could  not  be.     I  felt  that  you  must  die  / 
For  my  sake,  for  my  boy,  for  Milom.     You 
Murdered  my  lord  husband.     Stare  not  thus ; 
'Tis  melancholy  truth.     You  have  usmped 
The  first  place  in  the  dukedom ;  have  swept  down 
My  child's  rights  to  the  dust.     What  say  you,  sir  ? 


166  ISABELLA. 

Do  you  iinpeacli  my  story  ?     While  you've  time, 

Give  answer.  [He  dies. 

You  are  silent  l  then  are  you 

Condemned  forever.     I  could  grieve,  almost. 

To  see  his  ghastly  stare.     His  eye  is  vague ; 

Is  motionless.     How  like  those  shapes  he  grows. 

That  sit  in  stony  whiteness  over  tombs, 

Memorials  of  theii*  cold  inhabitants. 

Speak !  are  you  sunk  to  stone  ?     What  can  you  say 

In  your  defence,  sir  ?     Turn  your  eyes  away. 

How  dare  you  look  at  me  so  steadily  ? 

You  shall  be  amorous  no  more.     Must  I 

Rouse  you  ?     How  idly  his  arms  hang.     Tm-n  your  eyes 

Aside.     I  dare  not  touch  him ;  yet  I  must. 

Ha !  he  is  dead — dead ;  slain  by  me  !     Great  Heaven  ! 

Forgive  me !  I'm  a  widow,  broken-hearted. 

A  mother,  too ;  'twas  for  my  child  I  struck. 

Yon  bloody  man  did  press  so  hardly  on  us ; 

He  would  have  torn  my  pretty  bird  from  me ; 

I  had  but  one ;  what  could  I  do  to  save  it  ? 

There  was  no  other  way ! 

BAEET  COENVALL. 


THE    PASSION    FLOWER 


I. 


'Tis  niglit,  tis  niglit !  tlie  lioui'  of  hours, 

When  love  lies  down  with  folded  wino;s, 
By  Psyche  in  her  starless  bowers, 

And  down  his  fatal  aiTows  flings ; 
Those  bowers  whence  not  a  word  is  heard, 

Save  only  from  the  bridal  bird, 
Who  'midst  that  utter  darkness  sin2:s 
Sweet  music,  like  the  running  springs ; 
This  her  burden,  soft  and  clear, — 

"  Love  is  here  !  Love  is  here ! " 


'Tis  night !  the  moon  is  on  the  stream, 
Bright  spells  are  on  the  soothed  sea. 

And  hope,  the  child,  is  gone  to  dream 
Of  pleasures — which  may  never  1  )e ! 

And  now  is  haggard  care  asleep ; 


1G8  THE    PASSION    FLOWER. 

Now  dotli  the  widow  Sorrow  smile, 
And  slaves  are  liusli'd  in  slumber  deep, 

Forgetting  grief  and  toil  awliile  ! 
"Wliat  siglit  can  tiery  morning  show, 

To  shame  the  stars  or  pale  moonlight  ? 
AVhat  beauty  can  the  day  bestow. 

Like  that  which  falls  with  gentle  night  ? 
Sweet  lady,  sing  I  not  aright  ? 

Oh,  turn  and  tell  me, — for  the  day 
Is  faint  and  fading  fast  away ; 
And  now  comes  back  the  hour  of  hours. 

When  love  his  lovelier  mistress  seeks. 
Sighing  like  winds  'mongst  evening  flowers. 

Until  the  maiden  silence  speaks ! 


Fair  girl,  methinks — nay,  hither  turn 

Those  eyes,  which  'midst  their  blushes  burn ! 
Methinks,  at  such  a  time,  one's  heart 

Can  better  bear  both  sweet  and  smart ; 
Love's  look — the  first — which  never  dieth 
Or  death — which  comes  when  beauty  flieth — 
When  strength  is  slain,  when  youth  is  past, 
And  all,  save  truth,  is  lost  at  last ! 

BAEKY    COKNTVALL. 


THE    PASSION    FLOWER.  ^QQ 


n. 


Long  liave  I  searcli'd  o'er  memory's  scroll, 
Yet  there,  in  vain,  have  sought  to  trace 

The  record  of  a  gentler  soul — 
A  sweeter  form — a  lovelier  face. 

And  thou,  beloved !  oft  hast  deign'd 
Those  calm  and  radiant  eyes  to  bend. 

And  those  dear  lips  that  never  feigned, 
To  move,  in  converse  with  thy  friend. 

Thou  little  knew'st  what  words  unbreathed 
Lay  burning  at  his  heart  the  while — 

What  wild,  impassion'd  thoughts  were  wreathed 
By  the  calm  mockery  of  a  smile. 

II.    n.    EKOAVXELL. 


III. 


Stay  !  let  the  breeze  still  blow  on  me 

That  pass'd  o'er  liei\  my  heart's  true  queen  ! 

"Were  she  not  sweet  as  sweet  can  be. 
So  soft  that  breeze  had  never  been. 

O'ercome,  my  heart  to  her  l)ows  down  ; 

Yet  heaven  protect  thee,  lady,  still ! 
O  were  those  roseate  lips  my  o^mi, 

I  might  defy  e'en  age's  chill. 

90! 


170  THE    TASSION    FLOWER. 

Before  tliat  loveliest  of  the  land 

Well  may  tlie  boaster's  tongue  run  low 

I  view  those  eyes,  tbat  lily  hand, 

And  still  toward  where  she  tames  bow. 


O  niig^ht  I  that  fau'  form  enfold, 
As  evening  sweetly  closed  on  us  ! 

No — that  were  more  than  heart  could  hold 
Enough  for  me  to  praise  her  thus. 


HENET  OF  ANHALT, 
{Minnesinger.) 


MARGAPiITA. 


I. 


Gentle  maiden,  wandering  ever 
By  tlie  winding  Guadalquivir, 
Liglit  as  the  feather  wliicli  tlie  wind 

Waves  o'er  tliy  smootli  and  placid  brow ; 
What  thought  is  passing  o'er  thy  mind, 

To  leave  a  moment's  shadow  now, 

Gentle  Margarita  ? 

'Tis  not  of  grief,  'tis  not  of  care — 
In  these  thy  gay  soul  hath  no  share — 
No  gloom  can  long  endure  to  be 

Where  those  are  whom  the  world  caress ; 
If  ausrlit  of  sadness  visit  thee, 

'Tis  sadness  born  of  joy's  excess. 

Pensive  Margarita ! 


172  MARGARITA. 

Thy  joy  of  heart  will  come  agaiu, 
Like  sunshine  to  thy  native  Spain, 
"When  clouds  have  faded  from  her  sky ; 

Then  by  the  clear  and  tranquil  river, 
Tliy  step  as  free,  thy  hopes  as  high. 

Go,  hail  thy  own  dear  Guadalquivir, 

MeiTy  Margarita ! 

S.  C.  HALL. 


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